


lights turned low ('cause I don't wanna see this go)

by starryskeyess



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alcohol, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Getting Together, Kissing, M/M, Past Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Ugly Holiday Sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:55:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29037444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starryskeyess/pseuds/starryskeyess
Summary: Shiro's a lawyer, on an impromptu road trip across the country following a break up.  He just wanted some time to think, but when a snowstorm traps him in a small Midwestern town, he gets much more than that.
Relationships: Hunk & Keith (Voltron), Keith & Keith's Family (Voltron), Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 33
Kudos: 87
Collections: Sheithmark 2021





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Sheithmark trope bingo, with the tropes: highway shutdown, cozy/festive outfits, ranch home, meddling friends/family, fake dating
> 
> Huge shout out to the incredible mods who organized Sheithmark, my amazing beta who saved my butt a hundred times over, and the artist I worked with, who drew one of my [favorite scenes!](https://twitter.com/voidslantern/status/1354475456167374860?s=20)
> 
> Title is from 'Pretend' by the Bad Suns <3

Shiro is deeply regretting this road trip.

The salesman at the rental car place had been so excitable, talking a mile a minute, and Shiro couldn’t help but indulge him. He had let himself be talked into getting the “newest model,” fitted with all the bells and whistles. In truth, seeing the way the guy’s excitement lit up his whole face when Shiro agreed to listen to a fifth speech about the navigation system just filled Shiro with a sense of longing. When was the last time he felt so excited about his work? Not committed or motivated, but truly joyful? He may have let that shame sway him into choosing the option with the heated seats. 

It’s been years since Shiro has been on a road trip. He thinks back, remembering a long drive in Matt’s beater car, too busy blasting music with the windows down to worry about anything else. He’d been fun, once. 

Now, sliding slowly down the highway with his hazard lights on, Shiro has no idea if he’s even going to _survive_ this impromptu road trip. He thought the long drive would give him time to think, to figure out how to move forward, but the highlight reel of his breakup keeps playing in his mind. He had always known it wouldn’t work out with Adam, but he knows he’s been complacent. He hasn’t risen to the little barbs, they glanced off his work armor. He knew neither of them were happy, not really, not the way they deserved to be.

Still, change is hard. They’d been good once, probably not even that long ago. They had been in love, and Shiro had imagined their future together--honestly he’s not sure when he stopped picturing that future, but the image is gone nonetheless. Adam’s a good guy, and he was right. Shiro was never going to choose Adam over his work, and that’s what it came down to. The choice was easy, and the truth of it feels terrible.

Shiro hasn’t seen another car for miles. Snow swirls around him, flying past as he limps along the highway, and he’s reminded of a spaceship, hurtling through the stars. He definitely should have pulled over an hour ago, when he passed the last of the exits for the city. But here he is, in a rental car with more buttons than he knows what to do with, flirting with a slow, cold death in a ditch.

He sees lights up ahead, but not the steady beams of oncoming headlights. The lights are flashing aggressively, red and blue bright gleaming against the snow banks. As Shiro pulls closer, he sees their source: the road is blocked, police cars splayed diagonally across both lanes. Shiro creeps forward as an officer in a thick jacket approaches his drivers’ window, waving him down.

“Evening,” the officer says, shining his flashlight first at Shiro, then around the interior of his car.

“Good evening, sir,” Shiro says. Anxiety creeps in, baseless and illogical. He’s not doing anything wrong, but still, Shiro can hear his pulse thundering in his ears.

“Where are you headed tonight?”

“Just passing through, I’m headed home from a business trip,” Shiro replies, mentally mapping out the locations of his identification. What do you even give the officer for registration in a rental car? The receipt?

“Ah, bad luck. The highway’s closed for the next few miles here because of the storm.”

“Do you know when it’ll be open again?”

At this point, the officer is looking at Shiro like he’s a little bit crazy, or like he might have a death wish. Or both.

“No, sir. Storm’s expected to last a few more days at least, I can’t imagine it’ll be clear for another week.”

“Is there… a detour, or another way around?” Shiro hopes he doesn’t come off demanding, or petulant. He just wants to be _home._

“Only way through is to head down this road here,” the officer says, gesturing towards what looks like a somewhat flatter patch of snow on the side of the road. Shiro eyes it suspiciously and the officer laughs, “It’s a two lane road, the town’s not far from here. Maybe two miles.”

“There’s a town out here?” Shiro’s GPS hadn’t made it seem like there was much other than mountains and rivers running through this area.

The officer laughs again, “Yes, Marmora. There’s a nice Bed and Breakfast if you need somewhere to stay and wait out the storm.” The officer eyes Shiro’s backseat, the small overnight bag he usually takes on his flights for work. Of course he hadn’t packed more than a pair of sweats and basic hygiene supplies.

Shiro peers again at the road that seems to lead to nowhere. He knows his scepticism is written clearly on his face but he shrugs, nodding at the officer and murmuring a quiet thank you. He slowly pulls forward, wheels spinning against the snow until he’s lurching forward. The officer backs away and lets Shiro pull away, wiggling his fingers in some approximation of a wave.  
Sure enough, there’s a road there. In the distance Shiro thinks he can make out some light pollution, the deep blue of the sky just a shade lighter. He’s never been a praying man, but looking out at the road before him, he prays that this isn’t an elaborate scheme to kidnap him by some crazy person pretending to be a cop. He sets out, slow and easy, clenching the steering wheel with a white knuckle grip. 

-

The cop was right. Shiro pulls into the sleepy, snow covered town and the first thing he sees is a sign for the Marmora Bed and Breakfast. It’s… huge, really. Shiro expected a dingy, rundown motel. But he instead finds a sprawling ranch home, with what appears to be gardens, a modest parking lot and a looping driveway outside. 

Shiro isn’t going to stay. Of course he isn’t. He’s supposed to be back before tomorrow—it might be almost Christmas but impatient clients aren’t in the business of waiting. But maybe someone here will be more helpful than the officer, and actually tell him how to get the hell out of here and continue on his drive home. When Shiro pulls up the driveway he can make out a figure, someone shoveling large scoops of snow off of the walkway from the driveway to the front door. 

The figure turns as Shiro approaches, squinting into the bright light of Shiro’s headlights. Through the quickly falling snow, Shiro can kind of make out dark hair, and pale skin. The man, he’s pretty sure it’s a man, is bundled up well, thick coat and pants, and a bright red beanie. He raises a hand in greeting, leaning lightly on his snow shovel. 

Shiro parks the car, stuffing a hat of his own on his head, a kitschy one he bought at the airport gift shop, and climbs outside. In his suit, he’s entirely unprotected from the snow. Flakes fall and melt into the fabric of his jacket, the cold sinking into his bones. Shiro’s shivering before he makes it around the car, walking carefully through the packed snow, and wincing when snow falls into the space between his foot and his shoe, soaking easily through his black socks. 

“Hi, I was wondering if you could help me?” Shiro calls, waving at the man and giving him his most winning smile. The one that usually convinces waitresses to slip him a free dessert, or to grant him _just one more extension_ on submissions. 

“Need a room for the night?” asks the man in a pleasantly rough voice. 

“No, but thank you,” Shiro replies, “Just looking for a way through town. I know the highway that way is closed, but is there another road I can take?”

The man’s smile, courteous and probably not entirely genuine, grows. His eyes take Shiro in, and Shiro can’t make out the color below his dark lashes but he can see the humor in them. 

“Sorry, storm’s too bad,” he says, “it’s not safe out there to drive. Might wanna hunker down for a bit.” His tone is smooth, and knowing, and the look in his eyes is the same as he watches Shiro’s smile crack and start to fade.

“I really appreciate it, and I’m sure your boss would be happy that you recruited a customer for the night,” Shiro says, “but I really can’t stay. Which way to the road out of town?”

The man chuckles softly, pushing his weight off of the shovel and turning back to his task. He calls out, turned mostly away from Shiro, “Keep going into the center of town, left on Main street.”

Shiro nods at the man’s back, and shuffles his way back to his car. He tries not to look back at the man, but he does anyway. He’s still shoveling, scooping up pretty large clumps of snow and throwing them farther than he needs to. Shiro wonders, briefly, if he might be showing off, like the guys he sees at the gym benching a little too much weight at a time when a pretty girl occupies the next machine, but he dismisses the thought quickly. He’s not _that_ self-centered.

The town seems cute, actually. Street lamps adorned with ribbons and wreaths sit at regular intervals, separated by cross walks, bus stops, and public benches. Most of the store fronts Shiro can see look older, with brick walls and ornate lettering denoting clothing shops, pharmacies, restaurants with snow dusted tables and chairs outside. People mill about on the streets, bundled up in cozy winter clothes, walking arm in arm. It looks like a scene from a magazine, advertising winter jackets or snow tires or something. 

Shiro slides to a stop at the only traffic light he’s seen so far, waiting not so patiently for the light to change. He can barely see the sign telling him what street it is through its layer of snow, but he’s fairly confident that it’s Main Street. He stalls a little when he tries to get going, spraying muddy snow behind his car, and as he turns and starts down Main Street, the snow starts falling harder. His windshield wipers can barely keep up, swiping across his windshield furiously, and he can just see barely enough to make his way. Shiro hunches down over his steering wheel, gripping it tight and keeping a very light touch on the gas pedal as he slowly makes his way out of town.

-

Shiro _definitely_ should have taken a plane home.

He curses himself for at least the hundredth time, thinking about the silk sheets of his bed, his electric tea kettle, his favorite fuzzy pajama pants, as he shivers in his car. 

His car that, in a stunning turn of events, is now sitting in a snowbank and not moving. There was no way for him to have been ready for the sharp turn in the road, it had snuck up on him in the almost blizzard he was driving in. Before Shiro even knew what was happening, he was sliding right into a ditch, though luckily not a deep one. A fancy navigation system and seat warmers couldn’t get him out of this one.

The seat warmer is, however, fighting valiantly to keep at least one part of him warm. He had blasted the vent heater for a while but now his car is off while he waits for a tow company or somebody to show up. He’d called 911 as soon as he realized he wasn’t getting out of there on his own, and they’d told him it might be a while before anybody could come to help him. 

The first few minutes weren’t so bad; he’d given up on trying to get radio reception and had settled into his seat, resting his eyes. But Shiro’s never been very good at resting, at least not until he’s worked himself into exhaustion, so he grows bored quickly. He tries to read on his phone, but the battery is low and he doesn’t want to waste it, just in case he needs to make another emergency call. 

Finally, after an hour of mind numbing boredom and shivering, Shiro sees headlights. A small pickup ambles up to where Shiro’s stranded, stopping just before the turn that caused his downfall. Shiro can’t see the person who gets out of the car through the bright light of their headlights, but he gets out, not even bothering to hide his shaking as he climbs up the small incline to the road. He waves widely, barely catching himself before he slips and falls, and calls out, “Hi! Thank you so much for stopping!”

The driver strides casually towards him and once he’s close enough, Shiro recognizes the man with a sinking feeling in his gut—it’s the man from the Bed and Breakfast. The man seems like he’s barely holding back a smug smile, “I told you so,” written in his eyes. 

“Looks like you’re a little stuck there,” the man does say.

“Looks like it.” Shiro can’t keep the petulance from his voice, having to ask this man for help again after he ignored his advice entirely. He just knows he seems like an absolute idiot, but at this point he can’t feel any embarrassment, or his own toes. He just knows he’s cold.

“Do you think you can tow me out?” Shiro asks through his chattering teeth.

“Nope,” his savior walks past Shiro to his car, popping the trunk open and looking around, and finding nothing but the car’s manual. He moves on to the backseat, finding Shiro’s overnight bag and slinging it over his shoulder. The man then walks back to his own car, leaving Shiro dumbfounded in the snow with nothing but his phone, the clothes on his back, and a flabbergasted expression on his face. And soggy shoes, but he’s trying not to think about them. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Shiro demands, or at least tries to. The words come out weak and interrupted by the clacking of his teeth. The man just tosses his bag inside the passenger door, looking back at Shiro.

“Just get in the car,” he says, and his tone brokers no argument. Shiro opens his mouth to respond, to insist that he call for someone to tow his car out, but when he looks back, he sees how unlikely that is. The snow is still falling, and hard, and soon nobody will even know there’s a car there under all that snow. So he snaps his mouth closed and makes his way to the man’s car with all the dignity he can muster, which isn’t much considering he’s walking through shin deep snow wearing loafers. He climbs into the passenger seat and closes the door, instantly enveloped by the warmth of the running truck.

Shiro reaches out to warm his fingers against the vents of the truck as they make a slow, careful turn and head back into town. He’s so cold, shivering so hard, that he doesn’t realize how odd it must seem to be warming the metal fingers of his right hand’s prosthetic. And truthfully, he can’t feel cold there, but his bicep where the prosthetic is attached is starting to ache from the cold metal. He normally is a lot more careful about keeping things like this from happening.

 _I guess that breakups really do make you dumb,_ he thinks. If the man noticed at all, he hasn’t said anything. He’s barely spared Shiro a glance, watching the road with sharp eyes while he drives. 

“Thank you,” Shiro says softly. He doesn’t look at the man, watching his stinging fingers turn pink from the heat of the vent with single minded concentration. The man just hums in acknowledgment, and that’s enough.

“I’m Shiro,” he chances.

“Keith,” says the man, and he smiles at Shiro briefly, flashing sharp canines. Keith. Shiro rubs his hands together, hissing at the pins and needles that prickle over his skin at the contact. His stomach grumbles, _loud,_ and it’s only then that he realizes he hasn’t eaten in hours.

“I’m not normally this stupid, you know,” Shiro says, and it feels like he’s trapped in his head, helpless to stop the words from pouring out, “I mean, I’m a lawyer. I practice _law._ I don’t normally get stranded in snow storms after being told not to go out. Twice, even.”

Keith’s smile just grows, and he says nothing.

“It’s just that I’m trying to get home, and normally I’d fly, but I decided to drive this time. In December. Through the midwest.”

“Huh,” Shiro says, more to himself than anything, “Maybe I am that stupid.” 

At that Keith laughs, a light genuine thing, and Shiro snaps his mouth closed, wishing he could melt into the seat like all the snowflakes that have melted into his hair, sticking it to his forehead in cold, wet clumps. 

“So… think that offer for somewhere to hole up for a night or two is still good?” Shiro asks, giving Keith the best puppy dog look he can muster. Keith laughs harder, shaking his head a little.

“It’s still good,” he says, “with the storm, a lot of the reservations we had coming in cancelled. Lucky you.” Keith maneuvers the car expertly, navigating the streets with practiced movements. He’s not careless, but he’s clearly more at ease with driving through a snowstorm than Shiro is. Even he knows not to be trying to drive cross country in this.

“Oh, that’s good,” Shiro says, sighing, “Sure your boss will be okay with you picking up some strange dumbass and bringing him back to stay there? For all you know this could all be part of an intricate plot to murder all of you.” 

They’re in town now, nearing the bed and breakfast, if Shiro’s memory is anything to go off of. Keith pulls into a spot near the front doors, shutting off the car. The rumble of the engine fades into silence, and Shiro instantly misses the constant flow of hot air from the vents. He was finally starting to feel something in his toes again, though what he was feeling was just this side of painful. He wonders if he should be thankful he can’t actually _feel_ the sloshing with every step, the sound is painful enough. Keith ponders him through his lashes. There’s a smile playing at the corners of his lips, and something wicked in his gaze when it meets Shiro’s.

“I think the owner will be fine with it,” he says, opening his door, “since he’s the one who made the offer in the first place.” He winks before climbing out of the car, taking Shiro’s bag with him. Shiro scrambles to follow him, mind racing. He hadn’t thought it was possible to be any dumber today, but here he is, doing it again.

Keith strides confidently through the snow towards the front door, boots crunching against the salt he must have put down after shoveling the path. Shiro almost lands right on his ass trying to keep up with him in his slippery shoes, but Keith reaches back, steadying him with a firm grip on his arm. Shiro doesn’t stop to thank him, whirling on Keith instead, opening his mouth to say… something. 

But just at that moment, the door swings open. Warmth and light and a cacophony of noise follow, washing over the two of them where they stand frozen in the snow. Shiro watches as the playful gleam in Keith’s eyes quickly transforms into sheer panic. He turns to Shiro then, trying to communicate something with his gaze, but Shiro doesn’t understand.

“Keith, you’re back!” a woman cries joyfully, stepping forward. There’s something familiar about her, the sharpness of her cheekbones, the unique indigo of her eyes—she looks like Keith. 

“Oh my god,” the woman continues, glancing quickly between Keith and Shiro, “Is this him?!”  
_Him? God, was the tale of his idiocy already circulating this tiny town?_

Keith’s eyes bore into Shiro’s with desperation, and it’s enough to keep him from asking what’s going on. Keith gives the tiniest shake of his head, before turning to the woman, who Shiro is pretty sure is his mom, and flashing her a brilliant smile.

“Yes, this is him,” Keith says, stepping closer to Shiro and looping his arm through Shiro’s. He squeezes tight, almost painfully so, leaning into Shiro, “Mom, this is Shiro. My boyfriend.”

-

“Your boyfriend?” Shiro whirls on Keith once the door to the bedroom closes, “Since when?” 

Somehow Keith had navigated the both of them to an upstairs bedroom without too much incident. There had been a chorus of complaints, from people who looked to be Keith’s family, plus a few others who might be guests. They had interrupted a game of “Pin the beard on the Santa,” whatever nonsense that was, and it took a lot of coaxing on Keith’s end to convince the group to return to their game and let Shiro settle in in peace. 

Now Keith is moving slowly, carefully, his palms out to Shiro in a soothing gesture, like he’s a wild animal Keith’s trying not to spook. Now that he’s thinking of it, he _feels_ a little bit like a trapped animal, and he wishes he had anywhere else to go. 

“I can explain,” Keith says.

“Yeah, I really think you should,” replies Shiro. He folds his arms, waiting. He thinks about tapping his foot impatiently when Keith doesn’t speak, but the effect might be ruined by squelchy socks. 

“I… ugh, okay,” Keith starts. He must realize Shiro isn’t preparing to make a run for it, though he can’t say the thought hasn’t crossed his mind, so Keith flops into a chair near the door, running fingers through his hair. Shiro hadn’t noticed how long it was earlier, curling in messy waves around his face. It suits him, Shiro thinks, the softness of his hair offsetting the sharp planes of his features. 

_Knock it off,_ he thinks to himself, _no admiring the strange man who might be trying to kidnap you._

“I really am sorry, Shiro,” Keith says, and his eyes are pleading when they meet Shiro’s, “I panicked, clearly. It’s just… my parents have been on my case about me being single for ages, so I might have...made up having a fake boyfriend a couple months ago.”

“I know it’s stupid. I just figured I could tell them he’s with his family for the holiday and make up some story about a break up in a month or so, and it would get them off my back for a little while. I wasn’t expecting them to see you and assume… I mean I don’t even know if you’re-”

“Oh, I am,” Shiro says, guessing where Keith’s going. He doesn’t say any more, letting the silence weigh on Keith, making him work for it. 

“Oh,” Keith says, “Okay, then. I really am sorry. I just… panicked.” His teeth worry his lower lip and he doesn’t meet Shiro’s eyes. Shiro can see him thinking, see Keith weighing his options in his head, and worrying more.

“I know, I didn’t think you planned this,” Shiro says with a small laugh, taking pity on him, “What do we do from here?”

“From here? I haven’t really thought past apologizing. Profusely. Maybe finding a way to make it up to you,” Keith says. He sounds so earnestly apologetic, Shiro is rocked back a little bit.

“Make it up… to me?”

“That’s stupid too, isn’t it?” Keith’s looking at him while he speaks, but Shiro isn’t sure he’s really talking _to_ him, “I mean, what could I really offer that would make up for _this?_ I’ll have to explain, of course, I can tell her the truth.”

He takes another look at Keith, taking advantage of the way the other man has returned to studying the rug under his feet while he speaks. He seems like an okay guy, kind enough to come out and rescue Shiro from the snow, risking getting stranded himself. He’s not hard on the eyes either, a study in contrasts. If Shiro’s honest with himself, Keith is actually beautiful, but that isn’t a thought he can afford to have. Not if he follows through on the half-baked idea forming in his mind.

Keith is still rambling, and there’s a quiet intensity about him, something intriguing and _hot_ and--

“Keith.”

Shiro’s voice is firm, and it snaps Keith out of his monologue. Dark eyes meet Shiro’s as Keith lifts his head, his mouth twisted into a grimace.

“I know how you can make it up to me,” Shiro can feel the playful smile he knows is waiting at the corner of his mouth, no matter how hard he tries to temper it.

“Anything, Shiro,” Keith breathes. The way he says Shiro’s name, like a plea, or a prayer, zaps through him like an electric shock. He wants to hear it again. 

“Let me stay?” Keith meets Shiro’s eyes with a startled expression, a question already forming on his lips. “I’ll stay, at least until it’s clear enough for me to get my rental car out of the ditch. And while I’m here, we could… we could pretend. If you want.”

“Pretend…?”

“That I’m your boyfriend.”

“My boyfriend,” Keith says, like he can’t quite understand the words he’s saying, “you would do that? For me?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t willing. Besides,” Shiro sits at the end of the bed, leaning to rest his elbows on his knees, “what else do I have to do for the next few days?” Keith laughs incredulously, rubbing his hands over his face, like he’s trying to wipe away his ridiculously bad choices. 

“I’ll have to call my work, let them know I’m not—,” Shiro stops short when he pulls his phone from his pocket and realizes it’s completely dead. His hair is dripping now, warming water running in rivulets down his forehead and splashing onto the screen. He tosses the phone on the bed, pushing his hair back off of his face with one hand. 

“Yeah, yeah, definitely, you should--yeah. Totally,” Keith rambles, his eyes lingering on Shiro, tracking his movements. He gets to his feet, pacing the small space in front of the door, “I completely understand. If you need to do some work while you’re here, I can make that happen.”

“I can probably make excuses for you right now, if you want to just get settled. Long trip, jet lag, yada yada. I’ll come back later, we can talk more then,” Keith moves to leave, movements ragged. 

“Hey, Keith?” Keith pauses with his hand on the door, turning back to Shiro, “There’s one more thing you could do for me, if it’s not too much trouble.” 

“Anything.” 

“That’s a dangerous offer,” the words slip out of Shiro’s mouth before he can stop them, low and slick. This time Keith blushes all the way up to his ears, the tips pink where they stick out of his dark waves of hair. “But for now I’d love something to eat?”

Keith smiles at him, relieved and nodding, before he slips out silently. He’s back before long with a plate of food for Shiro that’s still hot and steaming. Shiro can hear the chorus of complaints from the group upstairs when Keith tells them Shiro’s tired, and that they can meet him for real tomorrow. 

Shiro practically inhales the food, which is a shame because it’s delicious, perfectly spiced and flavorful. Belly full, exhaustion starts to creep in. Shiro doesn’t even remember how long he was on the road, but the strain of the day finally hits him. He works his wet, soggy shoes and socks off and tucks his feet under the blanket, hoping the cold and pruning aren’t permanent. Shiro thinks he can’t really sleep in his suit, but he takes off his tie, undoing a few buttons before leaning back against the headboard. His eyes drift shut, just for a minute, and sleep takes him like a thief in the night.

-

Keith leans against the door he’s just closed, letting himself go limp. _I’m in big trouble,_ he thinks. He can’t say for sure what forced the lie through his lips, making him blurt out that a total stranger, a _hot, well dressed_ stranger, was his fake boyfriend.

The lie about a boyfriend started small, really. An innocent anecdote about a nice first date. A few more after that. Keith has been intentionally vague when his parents ask for details, citing his firm belief that his mother is dangerous with basic information and a public search engine. And she is, really. She’s started asking different questions, seizing on every slip Keith makes, and he knew the jig would be up soon. So when she’d looked at him like that, with hope and joy in her eyes while she took Shiro in, he did the only thing he could think of. 

Shiro. He mulls over the name, tasting it like something sweet on his tongue. It was glaringly obvious, when he’d pulled up in Keith’s driveway, stalking out into the snow with only a knit hat for protection against the cold, that he wasn’t local. Keith could even admire his stubbornness, though he knew it wouldn’t lead him anywhere good.

He’d wished that he was content to let the elements have this mystery man, but curiosity had gotten the better of him. Sure enough, when he’d called over to the sheriff’s station, Keith found out he’d been right--Shiro was stranded in a ditch on his way out of town. With just one tow truck in town, Keith knew he’d be stuck in the snow for a while. He’d steadfastly ignored the smile he could hear in the dispatcher’s voice when he’d volunteered to go rescue the tourist.

And now here he is. With his pretend boyfriend shivering in impractical winter clothing in the next room and wondering how he’s going to keep up the charade for the next few days. Keith feels a warm hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

“Hey buddy,” Hunk’s voice is a balm, soothing, “Quite a revelation you just made, huh?”

“I’m so fucked, Hunk,” Keith’s voice comes out muffled by the hands he’s buried his face in. 

“It’s possible,” Hunk agrees. He doesn’t say anything else, just maintains his grip. Keith’s always grateful for Hunk’s friendship, for his steadiness, the brightness and love he brings to everything he does. His gratitude doubles when Hunk finally asks, “How can I help?”

Keith’s laugh is hollow. He finds only kindness in Hunk’s brown eyes when they meet his own panicked ones. 

“Can you turn back time and make me _not_ do that?” Keith asks, shaking his head.

“Would if I could.”

“I know.” Keith’s mind is racing, but not towards anything productive or helpful. He’s picturing a million ways all of this could go sideways, with no idea about how to make it go _right._

“Come on, let’s drink some cider and we can figure it out together,” Hunk wraps an arm around Keith’s shoulders, pulling him away from Shiro’s door. 

“What am I going to tell my mom tonight?” Keith wonders out loud, and winces at the brightness of Hunk’s laugh.

“Nothing she doesn’t already know. Or think she knows,” Hunk tells him. He drags Keith along, using his easy demeanor to somehow navigate the both of them through the dining room where a lively game night is still going strong, into the kitchen. Keith sees the questions on the tip of everyone’s tongues, but somehow, they stay unasked for the moment. 

He stares deeply into his mug of cider, pondering the huge mess he’s found himself in.

Shiro wakes with a start. The door is opening, a widening crack of light flooding into the dark room. For a moment he has no idea where he is, but at the sight of Keith poking his head in the door, the memories come flooding back. He tries to straighten, to slide off the bed, wincing at the ache in his neck. Sleeping sitting up might not have been the best idea. 

The door swings open fully, and Keith slips inside, two steaming mugs in his hands. He pushes the door behind him with his foot, maneuvering deftly. He’s dressed for bed now, in a simple t-shirt and sweats, and it’s only then that Shiro gets a real look at him. He’s lithe, lean muscles bunching under the material of his shirt. It’s unfair, Shiro thinks, that he looks so good in something simple and comfortable. 

“Well good morning sunshine,” Keith says with a soft smile, holding out one of the cups like a peace offering. Shiro smiles in return, feeling something cracking at the corner of his mouth. He realizes too late it must be drool, scrambling to wipe it away _casually_ before accepting the cup. The smell of spices and apple wafts up to his nose, scented steam curling around his face in swirling tendrils.

“It’s apple cider,” Keith explains. He perches lightly at the end of the bed, not letting his weight rest or his muscles relax. “My business partner, Hunk, he’s a genius in the kitchen, makes the stuff from scratch. He says there’s a secret _ingredient_ but he always says that.”

Shiro doesn’t drink right away, letting the warmth of the cup seep into his hands. He smiles at Keith, who seems to be carefully glancing at him just for a moment before looking away again. They aren’t going to fool anybody this way.

“So,” starts Shiro, glancing at his watch before giving Keith a playful look, “do your guests know their owner is sneaking into peoples’ rooms in the middle of the night?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them was spying on me and is absolutely overjoyed by it,” Keith laughs at the way Shiro blanches, “My mom.”

“Ah, I thought she might be. You have the same eyes,” Shiro enjoys the way Keith blushes at his comment a little too much. It’s cute, he thinks. 

“She’s… a lot. I’m gonna have to apologize to you in advance. Profusely.” Keith looks so genuinely concerned, almost afraid for Shiro, that Shiro can’t help but laugh.

“Like I said earlier,” Shiro assures him, “I’m a lawyer. I interact with intense people all day. I’m sure your mom will be fine.” Shiro isn’t entirely sure why he’s trying so hard to reassure the man who tried to pass him off as his boyfriend thirty minutes after meeting him, but something about him pulls Shiro in. Keith eyes him more fully now, sweeping his gaze up and down Shiro’s body. It’s almost as if he looks _through_ him, and suddenly Shiro feels naked and vulnerable.

“You’re being a lot cooler about this than most people would be,” Keith observes.

Shiro takes a sip of his cider, then a deeper drink, marveling at the flavor. Keith wasn’t kidding, it’s magical. The sweet and tangy taste of apples mix beautifully with cinnamon, nutmeg, and something else he can’t put his finger on. Shiro wonders if the same person was behind the dinner plate he had scarfed earlier. He hopes so--if Keith looks _this_ good, and cooks _that_ well, he just might fall in love.

“Maybe. But we’re here now. So,” Shiro says, turning to face Keith fully, tucking one leg under himself, “let’s figure it out.”

They talk late into the night, until both of their mugs are empty and cold, and Shiro can barely keep his eyes open. He learns about Keith, about how he prefers coffee to tea, how he was an Eagle scout, his favorite color (red); but not why he chose to open a Bed and Breakfast in the middle of nowhere, of all things. He’s quick-witted and perceptive, Shiro notices, and he can’t help but wonder how he found himself here, of all places.

He learns about Keith’s family, about his mom and her proclivity for getting a little too involved in Keith’s life. About his dad, and the way his calm balances out his mom’s intensity. Shiro learns about Hunk, (though he’s not sure that’s actually his name, and at some point it felt too late to ask) Keith’s business partner who cooks and does some of the programming at the Marmora B&B. 

Luckily, Keith has been hedging his answers whenever his mom asks about his “boyfriend,” and they don’t have anything to explain away. Shiro tells him he’s a lawyer, working for a large firm in the city. The twinge he feels at having to explain his arm is so small he barely feels it now. He’s repeated the story so many times it barely feels like his anymore. He got sick, he lost his arm, he got better. 

And to his credit, Keith doesn’t ask for anything more than Shiro wants to give. He blushes again, furiously this time, when they finally talk about the topic that’s been hovering between them; the act of pretending itself. After a few minutes of halting conversation and averted gazes, Shiro calls for a halt.

“Keith, we don’t have to figure this out tonight. This is an… unusual situation, and of course it feels awkward,” Shiro says gently, nudging his knee against Keith’s. He’s not sure how they came to be sitting so closely together, but he doesn’t mind. Far from it, actually. 

“I guess that’s true,” Keith says. He still looks worried, and the little crease between his eyebrows when he frowns is also quite cute. Shiro’s pretty sure attraction isn’t something he’s going to have to fake.

“There is one thing I am not prepared for,” Shiro feels a little bashful asking for anything else at this point, but this is definitely something he should bring up, “I didn’t really pack any extra clothes. I mean I have some sweats to sleep in, and an extra pair of underwear, but unless you want me to be nude for the next few days… I’m going to need something to wear.”

“Being naked would probably keep people from asking you too many questions,” Keith muses, and he laughs at the way Shiro’s face blanches, “I’m joking. It wouldn’t dissuade my mom at all. I’ll work on it.” 

It takes a moment for Keith’s words to sink in, but by the time he figures it out Keith is back at the door, ready to escape. He’s cackling as he closes the door; the pillow Shiro throws at his retreating figure thumps against the wood as it clicks shut. Shiro can still hear Keith laughing down the hallway, and he sticks his tongue out at the closed door. 


	2. Chapter 2

Consciousness comes slowly, gently, without the usual buzz of Shiro’s alarm. He realizes that’s because his phone is still sitting dead and useless on the bedside table, and groans. He doesn’t want to think about how many missed calls and emails are waiting for him when he turns it on, so he plugs it in and leaves it off, at least for the moment. He’ll deal with the aftermath of his string of bad decisions after breakfast. And caffeine.

Shiro wanders the hallways in search of coffee, and hopefully a chance to get a lay of the land before he gets dogpiled by curious family members. He takes his time, admiring the decorations as he goes. The house is ranch-style, with a sprawling first floor. Each room has its own color scheme, and they’ve all been carefully adapted to the Christmas decorations. Silver and blue in the bathrooms, white and gold in what looks like a library. 

Many of the doors he passes are closed, neatly painted numbers adorning them. Shiro’s careful to keep his steps light, not wanting to wake anyone. When he enters the dining room, morning light filters in the glass doors, soft and diffused with snow. The world outside seems blanketed in white, at least a couple feet, and everything is ethereal and quiet. A sense of calm steals over Shiro at the sight, with a pinch of giddy excitement.

Lively music floats into the dining area from the kitchen, a joyful tune that reminds Shiro of sunshine and bright flowers, and there’s a man singing along with it. It doesn’t sound like Keith’s voice, but Shiro follows it, stepping quietly in his stockinged feet. Delicious smells follow the sound, frying ham and eggs, brewing coffee. 

He slips into the kitchen, finding a man cooking. His shoulder length brown hair is held back with a sunny yellow headband, and he’s dancing subtly as he moves, switching expertly between sizzling pans.

“Good morning,” says Shiro. His voice comes out cracked and rough with disuse, and a desperate need for water. 

“What the-!” the man startles, jumping at least a few inches in the air, and whirls to face Shiro. The panic in his face eases quickly, and he puts a hand over his chest, sighing.

“You scared me, man,” he says, gaze sweeping over Shiro, comprehension dawning on his features. His smile is wide and friendly. “You must be Shiro.”

“That’s me,” replies Shiro.

“Hunk. It’s great to…. see you again,” Hunk winks at Shiro conspiratorially. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Shiro says slowly, catching on, “It’s been forever. How have you been?”

Hunk laughs loudly, “You’re quick. That’s good, you’ll need that. Coffee is over there.” He gestures at the countertop where a large pot of coffee is bubbling. 

“Thank god,” Shiro fixes himself a cup, searching briefly for a mug before pouring a large steaming cup. Even the scent brings him to life a little bit, sharpening his senses. He finds french vanilla coffee creamer in the fridge and sugar in a cute little clay pot on the counter, adding too much of both to his coffee before taking a sip.

Shiro pulls up a seat at the island, watching Hunk work. 

“So, Shiro, you’re up early,” Hunk observes, without bothering to turn from his pans. 

“Am I? My phone died last night, I don’t… actually know what time it is,” Shiro realizes the truth of his words as they come out of his mouth. He’s a mess.

“It’s not quite eight in the morning.” Hunk’s voice is nonjudgmental, though Shiro’s pretty sure it’s because his focus is still on the food cooking in front of him. 

“Oh, that’s not that early,” says Shiro. He normally wakes hours before this for work. Even on weekends, he is usually back from his morning run and in the shower before eight. Something that might actually help clear his mind today, he thinks.

“I don’t suppose you guys have a gym of some kind here?” Shiro asks, though he’s pretty sure he knows the answer.

“Ah, unfortunately you’re at a Bed and Breakfast, not a hotel.”

“I’m not sure I understand the difference.” In truth, Shiro’s never stayed at a Bed and Breakfast, usually opting for a sleek hotel in the city, with all the amenities he needs at the tips of his fingers, at least the fingers holding his credit card. 

“Just switch out the gym and the business center for family breakfast and lots of corny activities,” Hunk explains. 

“Ah,” Shiro says, “So no business center either.” 

“That wasn’t the most enthusiastic response, Shiro,” Hunk laughs, “You might want a second cup of coffee before breakfast.”

“When is breakfast?”

“In about… fifteen minutes,” says Hunk, eyeing Shiro’s sweats, “you might also want to get dressed. You can take that second cup to go if you’d like.”

“Hunk, have you seen-” Keith stops short in the doorway to the kitchen when he sees Shiro sitting at the island. His hair is pulled back, leaving his face in stark relief, and Shiro has never thought he would be into a guy with a ponytail, pretend or otherwise, but it looks good on Keith. Keith’s eyes sweep over Shiro’s body, his thin undershirt and threadbare sweats, and he swallows. He’s clutching a stack of folded clothes under one arm, and his grip seems to tighten at the sight of Shiro. 

“I went to your room and you weren’t there,” Keith says. He almost sounds embarrassed. “I thought, I don’t know…”

“I woke up early, just came down to get some coffee,” Shiro assures him, gesturing at his empty cup, “Hunk has been keeping me company.”

“Damn straight,” Hunk chimes in, without pausing in his movements. Shiro’s entranced again for a moment at the perfect dance of Hunk’s cooking. He’s flipping pancakes with one hand while he mixes more batter with the other, occasionally giving a large pan of eggs a stir.  
“I’m sure he has,” Keith says, eyeing Hunk suspiciously. Shiro takes the opportunity to fill up a second cup of coffee and dress it up with sugar and cream, grinning at Keith’s horrified expression.

“Would you like some coffee with your sugar?” Keith asks, his voice teasing and warm, and for a moment it could be real. He could be the exasperated boyfriend, teasing Shiro about his coffee preferences, like it’s a conversation they have most mornings. 

“I suppose you take it black?” Shiro teases right back, stepping closer. Keith’s laugh is surprised and bright. They’re inches apart now, close enough that Shiro can see the faintest dusting of freckles across the bridge of Keith’s nose, endearing and adorable and—Keith gasps sharply, looking past Shiro to the clock on the wall. He grabs Shiro’s empty hand, yanking him out of the kitchen and back through the dining room.

“Whoa—where are we going?” Shiro asks, trying to keep up with Keith and keep his coffee from sloshing all over the room. 

“You need clothes,” Keith says.

“I need—I’m wearing clothes!” Shiro says indignantly.

“You’re wearing a see through tank top and sweats that are a stiff breeze away from falling apart,” Keith responds, and Shiro doesn’t even have the time to be offended, not that he would be if he had time—Keith’s not wrong. Shiro’s yanked down the hallway behind Keith, and pushed back into his room, and Keith shoves the stack of clothes into his hands. They were folded neatly before Keith tosses them onto the bed, gesturing at Shiro. When Shiro just stands there, sipping his coffee, Keith gestures wilder, asking, “What are you waiting for? Get dressed.” 

Shiro drinks deeply, taking his time setting his coffee cup down before turning to Keith, quirking an eyebrow and asking, “You gonna stand there and watch?” 

Shiro takes a little bit of pleasure in watching the way the color drains from Keith’s face. He turns on his heel abruptly, leaving the room and closing the door a little too hard behind him. Shiro can’t stop grinning as he pulls on the clothes. The sweats are comfortable and soft, and while they’re a little snug across his thighs, they mostly fit well. The shirt, on the other hand… Shiro’s thankful for every core workout he’s ever done. The cotton leaves nothing to the imagination, clinging to every curve and ripple of his torso. He’s pretty sure he can see his nipples through the fabric. 

When he opens the door, frowning down at his own stomach, Keith is there, wearing the carpet down with his pacing. He whirls to face Shiro, laughter bursts out of him like gunfire, loud and fast.

“Thanks,” Shiro says dryly, waiting for Keith to finish.

“Wow, um, big. I mean--,” Keith says between laughs, “Are you for real? It’s like your abs have abs.”

“Thanks?” Shiro says again. He honestly can’t tell if Keith is complaining or complimenting him. Maybe it’s a little of both.

“I guess that’ll have to do,” Keith says, taking Shiro’s hand again and pulling him towards the kitchen.

“Keith, wait,” Shiro pulls on Keith’s hand and they both stop, “Is this okay? The hand holding? I don’t want to do anything you’re not cool with. If I grab your hand or put my arm around you or something, that’s okay?” 

The anxiety in Keith’s face softens into something a little more tender. He smiles at Shiro, saying, “It’s fine, Shiro.” Keith squeezes Shiro’s hand and they walk back to the dining room together this time, side by side.

The table is set for breakfast, heaping plates of eggs and pancakes spread throughout. Even with Hunk’s music shut off, the room is much louder and more chaotic than it was earlier. There are two empty seats at the far end, hopefully for him and Keith, but every other chair is occupied. Conversations are happening simultaneously, overlapping and competing to be heard. 

“Shiro, Keith!” a man calls out, beckoning them over, “Took you guys long enough, get over here.”

“Like you bothered waiting for us, Lance,” Keith smacks the man, Lance’s, arm as they walk by, not too lightly, “Who even invited you this year?”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to take responsibility for that, my apologies,” the woman next to Lance says, and she doesn’t look the least bit sorry. She sips her tea gracefully, to hide her smile. Shiro takes a seat next to Keith, across from the woman, who considers him thoughtfully. Her silver hair is pulled up into an elegant updo that somehow doesn’t make her seem overdressed for breakfast. Her eyes grow wide as she looks at Shiro, and there’s something familiar in her face, and in her amber eyes. Despite the shimmering color of her hair, she can’t be much older than Shiro. 

“Good morning, I’m Allura. It’s very nice to meet you,” she says, and her voice has a lovely lilting accent.

“You as well,” Shiro says, and Allura beams at him. She leans closer, resting her elbows on the table as she studies Shiro’s face more closely.

“Anyway,” Keith says, peering between the two of them, “everyone, this is Shiro. Please don’t pester him, or me for that matter. It’s too early and I haven’t had any coffee.” Without another word, Keith scoops food onto his plate, taking a long drink from his coffee cup. Shiro notices, with a smile, that he does drink it black. 

“I can handle a little pestering,” Shiro says, with a wink at Keith, “I’m already on my second cup.” 

Laughter breaks out up and down the table and Shiro joins in, grabbing some eggs for himself. Shiro realizes that nobody sitting near him bears a passing resemblance to Keith. Hunk is next to Shiro, a large, friendly buffer between him and Keith’s mom. Krolia, Shiro remembers. Shiro would guess the man across from her is Keith’s dad, Tex. Somehow, they’ve strategically structured the table so Keith’s parents, most likely the ones who want to ask Shiro personal questions, are at the complete opposite end of the table.

Keith seems to realize the same thing as Shiro does, and Shiro doesn’t miss the grateful look he shoots to Hunk. Conversation picks up like normal, ebbing and flowing as people shove food in their mouths. Hunk’s cooking does not disappoint, somehow he makes scrambled eggs more delicious than they have any right to be, fluffy and cheesy and perfectly flavored. 

“Keith was right, Hunk, your cooking is amazing,” Shiro manages once he swallows the too-big bite he took. Hunk blushes, thanking Shiro, and offering him a plate of bacon. Shiro normally doesn’t eat bacon but he decides to help himself to a few slices. Before he can dig in, a sweet lilting voice comes from his right.

“Wait, haven’t you guys hung out a few times?” the voice comes from a curvy blonde woman, hair pulled into long braids that frame her wide blue eyes innocently, “There’s no way Hunk has let you get away without trying his cooking.”

The table quiets as every single head turns to Shiro, waiting for his response. He swallows hard, and fights the urge to look at Keith.The woman doesn’t take her eyes off Shiro’s face, and something about their intensity is _just_ like Keith.

“Somehow I’ve managed,” he says, “last time I was in town I was doing this stupid juice cleanse, I couldn’t eat anything he made.” 

Shiro takes a bite of his bacon, saying “Now I have another good reason to never do that again. I can’t even look at cranberry juice anymore.” He shudders for dramatic effect and it works, quelling the suspicions with a little humor. 

“Romelle, no third degree,” Keith’s reprimand is firm, but the squeeze he gives Shiro’s leg is gentle, reassuring. _Good job,_ it whispers. Romelle, Keith’s sister, if Shiro remembers right, pouts. 

Shiro can’t remember the last time he sat down to eat breakfast. He usually fits in a smoothie after the gym, on his way to work. He lives on the go, constantly moving. Sitting down to eat, taking his time, feels incredibly strange. When did he forget how to enjoy the small things like this?

Somehow he survives breakfast without any more slip ups, which he thinks he owes in part to Hunk—his food is so good everyone seems so busy stuffing their faces to worry about Shiro. Clearing the table is a group effort, and for a moment it feels so much like _family_ that it stops Shiro in his tracks. He hasn’t seen his parents in a while, though he usually calls them on the weekends - when was the last time he went home for Christmas? He hasn’t actually visited in far too long. 

“Son, I think I should borrow Shiro for a minute,” Keith’s dad comes up behind Shiro and Keith as they clear the table, slapping a hand to both of their backs.

“I really don’t think you should,” Keith retorts, narrowing his eyes at his dad. Next to Keith and Krolia, Tex looks downright jolly. Shiro can see little bits of Keith in him, his full lips, and the broadness of his shoulders. 

“Young man, we heard Shiro needs some clothes,” Tex says, eyeing Shiro and his tiny shirt, “Unless you want to keep putting him in yours and waiting for the seams to burst, you better let me help.”

Keith looks at Shiro again, wincing when she sees the stark outline of his body in his borrowed clothes. He nods silently, and as Shiro watches, he sees Keith and Tex have a conversation with their eyes, before Tex jerks his head in the direction of the dining room. Shiro’s eyes follow the gesture and he sees Krolia, watching them with a determined look in her eyes.

“I’m on it,” Keith mutters under his breath. He joins Krolia in the dining room, looping an arm through hers and marching her firmly towards the other end of the house. Shiro and Tex take the opportunity to slip out to Tex’s room. He doesn’t waste any time, pulling out a large suitcase and rifling through his clothes. He pulls out items at random, holding them up to size them against Shiro. 

“Thank you for letting me borrow some clothes, Mr. Kogane,” Shiro says, “I swear I’m not usually so under-prepared.”

“Life happens, son,” Tex says, “I’m just glad we’re the same size. I love my son dearly, but I’m not sure what he was thinking trying to squeeze you into his clothes.” 

Shiro blushes bright red, face hot. For some reason the teasing comment affects him much more from Keith’s dad than from Keith. Shiro’s usually a hit with his boyfriends’ parents, he’s a golden child who is universally loved by moms. But something about Krolia makes him think he’ll have to work harder for her approval than usual. It doesn’t help that he’s not actually dating her son.

“So,” Shiro says, picking up the clothes Tex offers him and folding them into neat piles, “This isn’t where you give me the _talk,_ is it? About how if I hurt Keith, you’ll hurt me?”

Tex chuckles deeply, shaking his head.

“Nah, not me,” he drawls, “My wife has that covered.” 

Shiro gulps. He has no doubt that Krolia would drag him over hot coals if she thought he deserved it, and he hasn’t even had a conversation with the woman. He makes a mental note to talk to Keith later about how they’re going to ‘break up.’ He wonders if his address is listed.  
Shiro thanks Tex again for the clothes, moving to slip out the door to his own room.

“Shiro?” Tex’s voice stops Shiro in the doorway, “Just… be kind to him? My son is a good man, and he’s been hurt before. Be gentle with his heart.” His sincerity hits Shiro in the chest, and he feels a deep pang for lying. He swallows hard, trying to force words, any words, out.

“I will,” he manages, and slips out of the room. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to get the way Tex was looking at him out of his head anytime soon. 

-

When Shiro gets back to his room he grits his teeth and turns his phone back on, waiting as all of the notifications stream in. It takes a few minutes for the phone to stop vibrating, and Shiro sets himself to the task of sorting through them. He has ten missed calls from work, dozens of emails, and a handful of texts. To his disdain he also has some panicked texts from Adam.

_So you’re just not coming home now, is that how it is?_

_Shiro seriously, where are you? Are you okay?_

_Are you seriously this fucking petty that you can’t even answer one text????_

_THIS ISN’T FUNNY SHIRO_

Shiro shoots off a quick text to Adam, telling him that no, he’s not coming home right now. He’s alive, he’s in a town called Marmora, and he’ll be back after Christmas. He also tells Adam to stop texting him, which might be too harsh but Shiro figures he doesn’t actually have to be that nice to a guy he isn’t dating anymore. Shiro steels himself, dialing his boss’s number, pacing next to the bed while it rings.

“Shirogane, you better be dying on the side of the road right now,” his boss doesn’t bother with a hello.

“Not quite, but I am stranded,” Shiro says, “I got stuck in a tiny town during a snowstorm. Can’t get out of here for another few days at least.”

“Are you kidding me? I need you back here yesterday.”

“Iverson, come on. It’s Christmas.”

“Don’t pull that shit with me, Shiro. You’ve covered the last three Christmases for us, you know the drill.” 

With a sinking feeling Shiro realizes he’s right. He really hasn’t celebrated Christmas in years. He’s always the first, and at times the only, to volunteer to work through the holidays. This year they have a particularly demanding client, expecting a full week’s work to be done while they enjoy their own holiday. The realization feels heavy, a sinking weight in his stomach. 

“I’m sorry, sir, I won’t be back until New Years. I can do a little work from here, tie up some loose ends and pass off some tasks, but I’m out of commission. Unless you’re able to get a laptop to me in this snow.”

He can practically hear the steam shooting out of Iverson’s ears, and he can hear the man practically growling as he considers Shiro’s words. “You’re gonna be in deep shit when you get back.”

“I know, sir. Merry Christmas.” With that, Shiro ends the call. He’s never blown off work, especially not without warning or planning. If he’s being honest with himself, it feels good. A fleeting kind of good, like skipping a day of school to go to the movies, with every awareness that his work will still be there when he gets back. It’s freeing, really, a feeling Shiro isn’t used to. And in reality, he knows the world won’t end because he took a few days off--maybe some rich men will have to wait a few extra days to get richer. It’s a price Shiro is willing to pay. 

Shiro hadn’t been lying though, and he doesn’t plan on leaving people waiting on him. The bed and breakfast might not have a business center, but he’s sure he can shut himself in the small library for a few hours at some point. Matt owes him about a million favors, and Shiro thinks he might just call them in. For now, he turns his phone off altogether, putting it back in the drawer. 

He changes into one of Tex’s shirts, folding up Keith’s and going to return it… until he realizes he has no idea where Keith’s room actually is. Not that he can ask anybody, he should know where his boyfriend sleeps. In all honesty, it’s probably weird that Shiro has his own room, but nobody has asked and he’s not going to bring it up. 

When he gets back to the dining room there’s a light lunch spread out, sandwiches and vegetable trays. Shiro grabs something to snack on and looks around for Keith, but doesn’t see him anywhere. On the other hand, Allura, Lance, and Romelle are sitting in the living room, chatting and having a good time. _Here goes nothing,_ Shiro thinks, taking a seat in an overstuffed chair. Allura notices him first, smiling warmly in Shiro’s direction while she listens to the story Lance is telling. He’s gesturing wildly, and from what Shiro can tell the story involves a wild goose and Lance saving the day. 

“Oh, Shiro!” Romelle interrupts Lance when she notices Shiro sitting nearby. She swivels to face him, leaning forward like Shiro is the one telling the gripping story, “You changed your clothes!”

“Yeah,” Shiro laughs, “Luckily Keith’s dad is a little closer to my size.”

“I think I liked it better before,” Romelle muses, eyeing Shiro’s chest appreciatively.

“Romi!” 

“What? I’m just saying,” Romelle pouts again, put off by the elbow Allura nudges into her side. 

“No ogling your brother’s boyfriend,” Allura reminds her, and the way she says it suggests that Romelle has to be reminded not to ogle people often.

“How am I supposed to know? I’ve never met one of his boyfriends,” Romelle pouts again, but there’s no force behind it. 

“It’s fine,” Shiro reassures her, holding his hands out in a gesture of peace. The conversation quickly moves on from there, Lance is happy to step back into the spotlight. Shiro mulls over Romelle’s words--she’s never met one of Keith’s boyfriends before? He’s not entirely sure what that means about Keith, but he hopes he’ll get to find out. 

-

According to the schedule Hunk had slipped him after lunch, the next activity isa gingerbread house making competition. Shiro eyes the schedule for the next few days, growing increasingly overwhelmed. It seems like four Christmases all squished into one. 

Shiro thinks about using the short break to take a shower, before thinking about how sticky he might end up in a couple hours. The sound of loud, lively Christmas music has him wandering back into the dining room a few minutes early, where Hunk has just about finished setting up. 

Spread out across the long table are eight stations, all stacked high with supplies. Gingerbread cookies in large squares and rectangles, tubs of icing, bowls full of brightly colored candies for decoration. Shiro chooses a station near Keith, smiling nervously at him as he rolls up his sleeves in neat folds. 

“The rules are simple, folks,” Hunk announces, “You have ninety minutes to complete your gingerbread house, the winner will be determined by vote at the end. You can use anything at your station but nothing else.” 

“On your marks, get set, build!”

They burst into action, and soon the laughter and exclamations drown out the Christmas music entirely. 

“You’re going down, Shiro,” Keith taunts from beside Shiro. There’s a bright look in his eyes when he shoots Shiro a look, before focusing on his task. 

“Oh yeah? We’ll see about that,” Shiro taunts back. Shiro’s always been competitive, it could be called his fatal flaw. It’s also the thing that got him through his recovery after losing his arm, and through law school after that. Though usually the person Shiro competes with is himself, the presence of a rival is exciting.

“Oh no,” Lance says, “Keith went and found himself someone just as cocky as him.” 

“Not cocky,” Shiro corrects with a wink at Lance, “confident.” 

Shiro doesn’t miss the way Keith’s eyes darken at his reply, and he gets a little lost in that look. Keith breaks their eye contact to get started, and Shiro follows suit. As it turns out, he’s a disaster at constructing things out of gingerbread. His basic house structure stays up, for the most part, but every decoration he tries to glue on with icing slides right off. His house is quickly becoming something out of a Christmas horror movie. 

He glances at Keith’s station only to find him struggling similarly. His face is scrunched up in concentration, lower lip caught between his teeth. Shiro loses a minute just watching him, before he decides to act. He takes one of his dry candies, tossing it gently at Keith. He watches it fly, smacking into Keith’s cheek and startling him out of his concentration.

“Oh, that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?” Keith’s returning fire is a whole handful of candies, and a couple marshmallows for good measure. 

“Settle down contestants,” Hunk admonishes, but there’s no fire behind it. He simply laughs when Shiro dips a finger in his icing, smearing it into Keith’s cheek. Keith gasps like he’s been wounded, not even bothering to wipe his face before retaliating. Shiro can’t stop laughing as they fight, dodging swipes of Keith’s sticky hands.

Hunk’s timer goes off and they stop just in time to watch Shiro’s dripping mess of a house collapse. Keith howls, head thrown back in laughter. Shiro can’t help but join in all over again. He steps close to Keith, wiping the icing from his face gently with his thumb, being careful to keep it out of his eyes. Keith lets his eyes flutter closed. They’re so close together, Shiro can see every individual shadow Keith’s dark lashes cast across his skin. It would be so, so easy to bend down and kiss Keith, easy to taste the sweetness of the icing on his tongue. The thoughts must be visible on Shiro’s face like a flashing neon sight, he can feel Keith tense as his eyes widen, looking up at Shiro helplessly. 

The look of surprise in Keith’s eyes is enough to make Shiro step back. He hands Keith a napkin with a smile, and Keith accepts quietly. His eyes are thoughtful as he wipes away what Shiro missed. 

To nobody’s surprise, Allura’s house is immaculate. Like, Christmas magazine level quality. The vote is unanimous in her favor, and Hunk reveals the grand prize--Allura gets to choose the movie that evening. 

“Should we even eat it?” Romelle asks, eyeing Allura’s house, “It’s so beautiful, it seems wrong.”

“We can eat mine,” Shiro offers, holding out his mess of cookies and icing, “it’s probably the best thing that can happen to it at this point.” He hands a piece of cookie to Keith, licking the leftover icing off his fingers thoughtfully. Keith’s watching his mouth, eyes heated, Shiro realizes, and it sends a thrill through him. Keith’s unfairly pretty, even covered in sticky icing, hair falling in wild curls around his face after escaping his ponytail. 

Shiro hopes Keith is thinking about kissing him, too.

-

Allura chooses The Holiday for movie night, something she insists is a classic, and an easy watch that almost everybody seems to like. Lance complains, insisting Die Hard is the only _good_ Christmas movie, but they all weather his ranting with good spirits. Shiro isn’t really sure where to sit, until Keith pats the loveseat next to him. Shiro settles in with an arm spread across the back of the couch, where Keith’s hair tickles his skin.

For a moment he thinks maybe he should back up, not find a way to get into Keith’s personal space, but Keith tucks himself right into the hollow under Shiro’s arm. He’s warm, Shiro notices, softer and more cuddly than he expected. 

The movie is good, but Shiro can’t make himself pay attention to the screen. He’s desperately distracted by Keith beside him. After a few minutes of agonizing internally, Shiro let his arm drape over Keith’s shoulders. The skin of Keith’s bicep is soft under his touch, as he runs gentle fingers along his arm in absent minded patterns. Shiro doesn’t even realize he’s doing it at first, his body just _wants,_ and it’s such a tiny thing.

Keith shivers in his arms, tensing and curling himself into a tighter ball. Shiro freezes, moving to pull his hand away from Keith’s arm with a barely audible, “Sorry.”

But Keith’s hand covers Shiro’s own, trapping it against his arm. Keith tilts his face up to look at him, and Shiro’s heart melts. He’s cozy, eyes heavy lidded and sleepy, and his hair is falling in his face again, like it’s just as stubborn as Keith himself, refusing to be confined to a hairband’s hold. He looks _devastating._

“I don’t mind,” Keith says quietly. The twinkling lights around the room are visible in Keith’s eyes, like stars in the expanse of space. Without even thinking, Shiro brushes a piece of Keith’s hair off his face, trailing a whisper soft touch along the shell of his ear. Keith’s cheeks flush a lovely shade of pink before he buries his face back in Shiro’s chest. Shiro’s laugh is a quiet rumble in his chest.

Shiro glances around the room just in case, and finds everyone’s eyes on the movie, except for Krolia. She doesn’t bother hiding her gaze, meeting Shiro’s eyes with an even look. After that, Shiro pays _diligent_ attention to the movie, continuing his gentle exploration of Keith’s skin. 

Keith’s breathing settles into an easy, smooth rhythm. Shiro can feel him relax, one muscle at a time, until he’s completely pliant, molded to Shiro’s side. Keith goes so boneless in sleep, Shiro’s not expecting it. Shiro’s only regret is that he can’t see Keith’s face. He hopes the man’s face relaxes the same way, worry and smile lines alike smoothed away by such deep rest. 

Shiro hums a laugh, not because he’s having incredibly _not_ fake feelings for his fake boyfriend, but simply because he feels good. Delighted and light, with this beautiful man curled up like a cat against him. It’s not the thrill of his work, the satisfaction he gets when closing a matter or being commended during performance appraisals, but it’s something softer, and more peaceful. 

The movie fades to the credits, and somebody turns the lights back up to a moderate brightness, to reveal Keith deeply asleep. 

“Just like a cat,” Hunk comments, and there’s a light chorus of fond laughter. One by one, they filter back to their bedrooms, wishing Shiro and Keith goodnight. Soon only Hunk is left, and he squeezes Shiro’s shoulder in a friendly grip, whispering, “End of the hall, on the left.” 

Shiro shoots him a grateful look, content to sit where he is for now. The fire has burned into embers, but Keith’s heat is enough. He lets his own eyes close,letting himself simply feel the way his body is heavy and relaxed. Shiro takes a moment to be mindful of every sensation, the steady sound of Keith breathing and the gentle rattle of heaters; the velvety texture of the couch under him, and the awkward press of Keith’s shoulder into his ribs that he can’t find the energy to mind. 

Then he hears something new--light footsteps, and the creak of the couch across from where they sit. When Shiro opens his eyes, Krolia is perched at the edge of the couch, sitting straight and proud. Shiro’s struck by an intense urge to prove himself, to show he’s worthy of Krolia’s respect, and trust. He’s not worthy of it, he knows, but damn if he doesn’t want to be anyway. He can see the strength of her, and from the little that Keith has told him about her life, he knows she must have fought hard and long to be the person she is now. The person that raised Keith. 

“You know I thought he might be lying,” Krolia says finally. Shiro looks up at her, fighting to keep his face even. “He doesn’t do it often, mind you. Lie, that is. But I thought maybe, he’s doing it for me.”

Shiro simply nods, hoping Krolia can’t hear his heart thundering. It’s deafening in his own ears. 

“Keith knows I worry about him. All I’ve wanted is for him to be happy, you know,” Krolia’s voice is soft, at odds with the hardness of her gaze. “And so I thought maybe he was telling me what I’ve been wanting to hear.”

“But then I see the way he looks at you, and I feel ridiculous,” Krolia laughs quietly, “I know my son, and I’ve never seen him _glow_ like this.”

She gets to her feet with agile movements, stretching to her full height like a large cat. Keith really takes after her. Krolia rests a hand on Shiro’s shoulder, warm and squeezing firmly while Shiro fights the urge to look away. Her dark blue eyes are piercing, but warm, “Thank you, Shiro, for making him happy. You’re a good man.” 

Watching her retreating form, Shiro swallows around a lump in his throat. Feelings swirl through him, warmth and disgust at himself and compounding layers of uncertainty. Keith breathes steadily behind him, sleep unbroken and complete. When his thoughts finally get much too loud, Shiro stirs, trying to wake Keith as gently as he can. Keith’s eyelashes are thick and heavy where they rest against the delicate skin below his eyes. Shiro slides out from under Keith’s weight, but to his dismay, Keith simply flops bonelessly into the warm spot Shiro just vacated.

“What am I going to do with you?” Shiro wonders aloud. Keith looks so serene, Shiro’s tempted to just tuck a blanket around him. He might have, if that wouldn’t have begged a million questions come morning. He sighs, crouching and sliding one arm under his shoulders, and another below his knees. Keith winds his arms around Shiro’s neck as he lifts Keith off the couch, letting his weight settle against his chest. 

Shiro walks slowly, keeping his steps smooth and even for Keith’s sake, distracted by the hollow of his collarbone where Keith’s shirt has slipped out of place. Shiro’s fingers itch with his longing to run them over that spot, they clutch Keith tighter in response. Luckily, he finds the door to Keith’s bedroom ajar; it swings open slowly when Shiro nudges it with his foot. 

The room is illuminated solely by moonlight, striped in silver where the light filters through large windows. The bed sits large and hastily made against one wall, Shiro steps hesitantly towards it. He’s hit by the realization that this might be an invasion of Keith’s privacy, entering a space that usually requires an invitation, and Shiro’s just barged right in. 

There’s nothing to be done about it now, Shiro thinks, and redoubles his efforts to get Keith to bed. It’s more difficult than it should be, making himself lower Keith to the softness of his sheets, to uncoil his arms and release Keith’s weight entirely. A selfish part of him wants to wait, to hold on to him just a moment longer. 

Shiro can’t let himself linger on the thought too long, he’s not sure he’s ready to figure out what it means. He backs away, letting his fingers trail ever so gently over Keith on their way, leaning across Keith’s body to pull the blanket over him. 

“Shiro,” Keith’s fingers are in his shirt suddenly, gripping with purpose. His eyes are still closed now, squeezed shut in what could be concentration. He whispers, “Stay.” 

Shiro feels like the breath was just punched out of his lungs. He lays his own hands over Keith’s, soothing them with soft touches. Keith relaxes in degrees, slumping back into his pillows. Keith’s grip on Shiro’s shirt relaxes under his warm hold, until Keith’s hands are lax enough to be lowered to his chest.

Keith’s face is still tense, features intense and focused despite his murky consciousness. Shiro smooths the tension from his forehead, his cheekbone, his jaw with his left hand. Keith mumbles out one last word before sleep takes him again.

“Please.”

-

Shiro wakes to sunlight and cold sheets. He stretches out an arm, expecting the warmth of Keith’s sleeping body but finding empty space instead. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, just crawling into the bed and settling into the pillows, leaving a respectful amount of space between his body and Keith’s. Keith had closed the distance in minutes, snuggling closer and closer in his sleep until his legs were tangled with Shiro’s, his head tucked under Shiro’s chin.

He must have dozed off just like that, with the steady rhythm of Keith’s breath as a sweet lullaby. But now he’s alone. In Keith’s room.

There’s an attached bathroom he hadn’t noticed last night. Shiro slips in, whistling. It’s simple and elegant, and incredibly clean, and the whole room smells of Keith. _Must be the soap he uses,_ Shiro thinks, splashing cool water on his face. There’s something different about his face when he meets his own gaze in the mirror. Something relaxed, smoothed out. 

Regardless, Shiro’s veins buzz with a restless energy, something unquenched by pacing the length of Keith’s bedroom. He considers venturing out, looking for Keith somewhere around the house. But if he left early for a reason, if he wanted space--Shiro could give him that.

He still feels antsy, jumpy even, left alone in a small room. Shiro bounces on the balls of his feet, warming up his muscles slowly. He stretches thoroughly, winces at the aches and pains he’s accumulated the last few days. Time blurs as he shifts into a brisk workout, settling into an easy rhythm of bodyweight exercises. 

Shiro isn’t how much time has passed, long enough to have worked up a fine sheen of sweat, and for his breathing to come a little sharper, faster. The door clicks open to reveal Keith in the doorway, mouth falling open as he takes in Shiro, prosthetic arm tucked behind his back while the other presses his body up in a one-handed pushup. 

“Keith,” Shiro breathes harshly, letting his knees fall to the floor, sitting back on his heels. He smiles up at Keith brightly, riding the endorphin high and the precise awareness of how devastatingly hot he is, “Good morning.” 

Keith’s reply is something unintelligible, garbled words that choke him on their way out of his throat. Shiro tries, and fails, to keep his grin from spreading even further, as he gets to his feet. He takes his time, stretching and ardently thanking his past self for stripping off his shirt minutes before. 

He knows his skin is flushed a warm pink, threaded with rippling muscles and dusted with soft black hair. Shiro doesn’t miss the way Keith’s eyes travel over him, down to his bare feet and back up, hungry and appreciative. The look in his gaze shifts to embarrassment, cheeks darkening with a heady blush. Keith strides past Shiro into the bathroom, emerging with a fluffy towel that he lobs at Shiro’s chest.

“You monster, now my room smells like a gym locker room. Go shower,” Keith says, and even the harshness he tries to summon can’t mask the way his voice roughens and cracks. Shiro chuckles and raises her hands in surrender, slinging the towel over his shoulder.

If he saunters a little on his way out the door, letting his hips swing slow, who could blame him?

-

Shiro winces as the emails pour in, sipping his tea while he waits. He had hoped that between a hot cup of tea, and the shower he’d finished a little while ago would have helped him enough to handle whatever he’d find in his inbox. The library is quiet, lit by the sun glinting off of the snow, and warm lights in ornate sconces. Plants are scattered throughout the room, tucked between furniture and occupying any flat space left empty. They give the room an earthy smell, something fresh and natural. 

Shiro settles into an easy rhythm, sorting and triaging tasks. The library computer is faster than he would have expected, simple and no frills. He makes a list of things he can wrap up today, and a few things he can transfer to Matt, or put off for a while longer. They’re lucky they only have one pushy client this holiday season, two years ago he was working at midnight on New Year’s Eve. Adam had been particularly hurt that year.

The door opens, and Keith comes in, dressed in a long sleeved shirt and jeans. He’s carrying a tray of food, cheese and crackers and meats in a haphazard pile. He closes the door behind him, beaming at Shiro.

“Well hello there,” Shiro laughs softly, and asks, gesturing at the plate, “Whatcha got there?”

“Food.” Keith shrugs, “It looked prettier on the tray in the kitchen.” He laughs with Shiro this time, before settling into a chair.

“Thank you for letting me use the library, Keith,” Shiro says. “I probably won’t need more than an hour, as long as I can reach Matt.”

“My pleasure, really,” Keith’s grin is wicked now, “I told my parents we needed some ‘private time,’ so they would leave you alone. Good news is I get a break, too.” 

“You told them we needed… private time?” Shiro asks. Keith nods, popping a piece of cheese into his mouth. 

“So you do realize you basically just told your parents we’re having sex in the library. At,” Shiro squints at the clock, “eleven in the morning.” 

Keith chokes, sitting forward and coughing furiously. He shakes his head, hard, and his hair swings from side to side with the motion. When he recovers, he grabs another cube of cheese from the plate, throwing it at Shiro. Shiro laughs when he dodges the dairy projectile, delighted at Keith’s dramatic outrage. 

“Ugh,” Keith groans. When he recovers, he leans back into the overstuffed chair, letting his head fall back while he stares at the ceiling. “When did I become so naive?”

It’s hard to focus on his work when there’s an attractive man sitting ten feet away, especially one that seems to be in need of reassurance.

“I don’t know. Did that happen recently or have you always been so innocent?” Shiro’s tone is playful, his eyes dancing over the line of Keith’s neck, his chin. He expects Keith to tease right back, but he’s quiet. The silence between them is thoughtful.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Keith answers, finally, shooting Shiro a fragile smile. Shiro smiles back, humming.

“I would, actually.”

“No, Shiro, I haven’t always been innocent,” Keith tucks his legs under himself in the chair, making himself smaller. 

“My parents met in high school,” Keith’s eyes are unfocused, like he’s looking at something Shiro can’t see. “‘Love at first sight,’ they claim. And it’s not that I don’t believe them, you know?”

“But I had my own experiences, in college,” Keith continues, laughing bitterly, “plenty of them, really. And then I felt it. The sparks, the--the _feeling,_ you know? Love at first sight.”

“Or--or at least I thought I did.” Shiro’s heart hurts a little, looking at Keith. As all of his old feelings flash across his features, Keith looks like his heart got broken yesterday, not years ago. 

“What happened?” 

“I was wrong.”

“Oh,” Shiro murmurs. Keith opens his book with a sharp sound, and starts to read. Shiro reluctantly returns to his tasks, sending Matt a few emails with instructions for the handful of items he’s going to pass off to him. Shiro has to go back and delete a few ‘please’ and ‘if you don’t mind' from the body of his email, a habit he’s always had a hard time breaking. 

Anxious to actually ask Matt for the favor before he reads the email on his own, Shiro pulls up a video chat and dials Matt.

The chime of Shiro’s video call feels loud in the tranquil space, and he wishes, more than anything at this moment, for a set of headphones. He winces at the burst of noise when the call is answered. But instead of Matt’s face filling his screen, it’s someone else.

“Shiro!” Pidge’s smile is wide.

“Hey, Pidge,” Shiro answers. He’s always had a soft spot for Matt’s younger sister; she’s brilliant and bold and she gives Matt a run for his money in just about everything. 

“I heard you’re in trouble,” Pidge says, “Finally got on Iverson’s bad side, huh? I wouldn’t have expected that from his golden boy.” 

“Yeah… about that. Is Matt around?” 

“Matt!” Pidge’s shout is loud, and Shiro winces at the way it blares through the computer speakers. He and Pidge make some small talk while he waits for Matt.  
Pidge is finishing an advanced degree in biotech. She’s responsible for the sophisticated tech of his prosthetic, something she insisted on for her ‘favorite brother.’ Her eyes light up when she talks about her current research, and Shiro’s heart swells. He laughs indulgently when she offers to put some upgrades in his arm, in case Iverson needs to be thoroughly pranked.

“Oh, here he comes,” Pidge rolls her eyes as Matt enters the frame. He’s flushed, and grinning widely. Matt ruffles Pidge’s hair, and she squawks indignantly. Sitting next to each other on screen, their resemblance is uncanny, they have the same amber eyes, identical strawberry blonde hair. Matt’s is pulled back into a sloppy ponytail, while Pidge keeps her curls short. Their smiles shine with the same proclivity for trouble.

“Hey, Pigeon. Shiro,” Matt grins as he greets him. Pidge makes a rude face at the nickname.

“Hey Matt, how’s it going? Having a good Christmas?” Shiro aims for casual, but he’s shockingly transparent.

“It’s going,” Matt says slowly, narrowing his eyes at Shiro, “Spit it out, Shirogane. What do you want?”

“Wow, so I can’t call my best friend and wish him a Merry Christmas? Maybe I missed your face.”

“Of course you did, my face is breathtaking,” Matt quips, “But that isn’t it. Tell me, buddy.”

Shiro laughs, shaking his head.

“I need a favor. A work favor.”

“I’m intrigued. What’s in it for me?”

“For you? Hmm,” Shiro pretends to consider, “Remember last month, when I covered for you with Iverson so you could go out with Jenn in accounting? Or last summer, when I pretended to be your boyfriend for three whole days so you didn’t--”

“Okay, okay! Sheesh, I get it,” Matt interrupts, throwing his hands up in defeat. “What do you need?”

“I emailed you with the details,” Shiro smiles while Matt splutters.

“Before you’d even asked me? How presumptive,” he huffs.

“I knew you were good for it, Holt,” Shiro says, giving Matt a mocking salute, “but thank you. I do really appreciate it. Sushi is on me when I get back.” 

“And when will that be? Adam texted me, he said you haven’t been back since you guys…” Matt trails off. 

“It’s… a long story,” Shiro hedges, sneaking a glance at Keith past the computer’s monitor. The other man is diligently studying the book in his hands, with rehearsed ease. “I got snowed in on my way home, it will probably be a few days.”

“Oof, tough luck buddy,” Matt sympathizes. Matt and Pidge pepper Shiro with questions about his adventures. While they talk, Keith stands, stretching with a soft sigh. He walks along the shelves, fingers trailing over the dark wood, his eyes seemingly searching for a book. Shiro’s distracted, his eyes darting to the slow swing of Keith’s hips as he walks against his will. He clenches his jaw, pasting his eyes to Matt’s friendly gaze.

“You look weird, Shiro,” Pidge squints at him, “Happier.”

Shiro’s face burns. 

“Me looking happy is weird, Pidge? Gee, thanks,” Shiro deflects. Keith tosses his hair over his shoulder and Shiro swears he can smell his shampoo.

“You know that’s not what I meant and you know it,” she insists, “I don’t remember the last time I saw you looking anything but _super_ serious. Come on, tell me! And _what_ are you looking at?”

“What? Nothing,” Shiro answers, trying to school his features into something resembling stern, looking intently at Pidge.

Pidge opens her mouth to argue, but something catches her attention, and she nudges Matt with an elbow, whispering too low for Shiro to hear.

“Maybe it’s the nice view,” Matt can’t keep the laughter out of his voice. He waggles his eyebrows at Shiro and points at something behind him. “Sparkling snow and a _very_ cute butt and--”

Shiro doesn’t hear whatever Matt says next, he whips his head around to find Keith standing right behind him, frozen in the act of pretending to grab a book. Keith’s back, and the curve of his admittedly cute butt faces Shiro and the webcam. 

“Oh my god,” slips from Shiro’s mouth before he can stop it. He scrambles to find the mouse with his prosthetic, clicking aggressively. “Bye, Matt!” 

The window closes on the image of Matt’s laughing face. Shiro’s cheeks burn hot as he drums his fingers against the desk nervously. He watches Keith sidle back to his seat, hands empty. Shiro hides behind the screen when Keith turns around.

“So those are your friends, huh?” Keith asks, and Shiro can hear the smile in his tone. 

“Yep.”

“They seem nice,” Keith muses. “And then Adam would be…?”

Shiro winces, and answers, “My ex. We--we broke up just before I left on my little ‘road trip.’”

“Ahh,” Keith tilts his head back in the chair, until he is at the right angle to see around the computer Shiro is using like a shield. His gaze is playful. “That really _does_ explain all the terrible decisions.”

“Yeah, I just wanted time, I guess,” Shiro shrugs, “To think.”

“Think about what?”

“What I want,” Shiro answers. His words come haltingly, unsure of themselves, “Adam said I cared more about my job than our relationship, and, I don’t know, I guess he was right. But I’m not even sure if I _love_ my job either.”

“Having time on your hands to think about those things,” Keith says, almost to himself, “can be a blessing and a curse.”

Shiro’s answering laugh is hollow. “It can,” he agrees.

Shiro gets to his feet, striding around the desk on long legs. He stops in front of Keith’s chair.

“Hey Shiro?” Keith’s eyes are a dark cool blue where they peer up at Shiro. He takes the hand Shiro offers, letting himself be pulled to his feet.

“Yeah?” Shiro’s breathless at their proximity. He can feel the heat radiating from Keith.

Keith smiles sharply, “Can you thank your friend Matt for me? You know, for saying I have a cute butt?”

Shiro knows he’s playing, but it does nothing to quell the possessive desire that claws up his spine. He moves even closer, nodding, even while he thinks _I will absolutely_ not be _telling him that._

“He wasn’t wrong, you know,” Shiro crowds into Keith’s space, and Keith doesn’t back away. His breath mingles with Keith’s when he whispers, low and lilting, “It is a very cute butt.”

The clock in the library chimes, low and sweet.

-

“I cannot believe you are making me wear this,” Shiro mutters under his breath, following Keith down the hallway, to where the rest of the inn’s residents are gathered in the living room. The wool is itchy against his skin and he can’t stop pulling at the hem, in vain, in the hopes that he can cover the exposed skin at his waist. Shiro’s sweater, a garish green color, is decorated with swirls of white flowering patterns, with block letters at the center, spelling out “I’VE BEEN NAUGHTY.”

Keith’s is the other half of a matching set, only his is red, reads “I’VE BEEN NICE” and actually fits. In fact, it fits like a _dream,_ the scarlet wool clinging to his lean form. Keith had been happy to let Shiro have the red sweater, but it had gotten stuck before Shiro could get it over his shoulders. Once Keith had stopped wheezing and caught his breath, he had helped Shiro wrangle out of the confining fabric, handing him the larger sweater.

Now, Shiro’s pretty sure he’d rather just be shirtless.

Shiro and Keith are met with cheers when they enter the room, with a sprinkle of laughter at their matching sweaters. Shiro gratefully takes the cup of spiced eggnog that Hunk hands him, swallowing a large drink. Shiro winces at the bite of alcohol--the eggnog is dangerous. 

Romelle hands Shiro a box overflowing with crumpled tissue paper. He has to set his glass on the table, draining half of it, so he can pluck delicate ornaments from their safe padding. There’s glitter on his fingers from the get go, impossible to wipe away. 

“Sorry,” Keith says, “the glitter is inescapable.” He giggles, dodging Shiro’s attempts to smear the sparkles across his sweater. Shiro’s tall, he’s not unused to being asked to decorate the highest branches, especially at the Holt’s. But luckily, the room here is full of tall people, and he can see Allura already hanging ornaments where the tree narrows to a sharp point. Shiro finds an open spot near the tree and starts decorating across the middle branches, trying to avoid lifting his hand anywhere above his shoulders. Every time he does, his sweater pulls higher, flashing the soft trail of hair below his belly button. 

To their credit, nobody says anything about his silly wardrobe. Shiro can see the jokes fighting desperately to escape Lance’s mouth, but he manages to stay quiet, aided by a few well-placed nudges of Hunk’s elbows. Conversation flows easily, joking and familiar, but Shiro stays quiet. His eyes are drawn to Keith, to watch the way he considers the tree before placing each ornament in his own box. He’s so serious, face scrunched up in consideration, and each choice is deliberate. He approaches everything with such intensity. Shiro is captivated.

The ornaments in boxes and hands dwindle as the tree comes to life, glittering and alight. 

“Keith, where is the other box?” Krolia asks, stacking empty containers together and folding tissue paper with military precision.

“I thought I had pulled it out…” Keith trails off, eyes darting around the room. His mouth twists in thought, and he disappears into the hallway. Moments later, he emerges, triumphant, carrying a shoebox in his hands. 

Shiro isn’t entirely sure what Keith brought out, but he finds he’s just as excited as everyone else. He takes the opportunity to finish his eggnog, nodding and smiling at Hunk when the man refills his cup. The alcohol buzzes, warm and vibrant, through his veins. 

Keith rummages in the box, pulling something gold and shimmery from it with a triumphant grin. His hair is lit with the soft light from the tree, glowing and ethereal, and Shiro wants to run his fingers through it so badly. 

Finally Shiro tears his eyes from Keith to see what he’s holding: an eight pointed star, coated in large gold flakes of glitter. A tree topper.

“So who gets the honors this year?” Romelle asks.

“The honors?” Shiro asks. It feels like he’s missing a tiny piece of the puzzle, something obvious enough to slip through his booze tinged brain. 

“Decorating the top of the tree!” Romelle explains. Her bright blue eyes are wide and excited. “Every year, it’s like being the guest of honor!”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Lance grumbles, folding his arms.

“You’re just saying that because _you_ aren’t allowed to go anywhere near it,” Keith’s voice is teasing, but there’s a small bite underneath.

“I still maintain that I’m blameless,” Lance huffs, and snaps back at Keith, “I would have caught it, I had everything under control, until _somebody_ interrupted me.” 

“Okay, okay,” Hunk wraps one arm each around Keith and Lance, squishing their cheeks when he pulls them in a little too tight. Enough to cut off whatever harsh reply was coming from either of them. “I think we know who gets the honors this year.”

Shiro looks around, searching for the lucky person, but every set of eyes is on him. 

_Oh._

“I--I don’t know if I should--”

“Nonsense, Shiro,” Krolia says. She plucks the star from Keith’s grip and offers it to Shiro. His fingers twitch with the urge to accept it, to step fully into this role in Keith’s life, just for tonight. But somehow, this feels _bigger_ than the rest of the weekend, weaving himself into traditions and memories where he doesn’t belong. 

Keith’s eyes find Shiro’s. There’s something unreadable and bittersweet in them, and he nods, just once. It’s barely a movement at all, a quick twitch of his chin and a crinkle in the corners of his eyes. But it’s enough for Shiro. 

He accepts the star from Krolia with a small smile, and Hunk produces a small step ladder from somewhere, proffering it for Shiro to step up onto. His first step onto the stepladder is wobbly, and he lists to the side. The world tilts and sways and Shiro is pretty sure he’s going to fall flat on his face, but his arm is caught by warm, calloused hands and he’s steadied. 

“Careful there, big guy,” Keith hums a laugh and Shiro can feel his blush spread to the tips of his ears. He mumbles something about the eggnog and it’s lost to rippling laughter. Not that Shiro’s even paying attention to the words that slip out of his mouth. His attention is captivated on the warm pressure of Keith’s fingers where they wrap around his wrist. He can feel the heat of them through the itchy wool of his sweater, branding him with a helpful, innocent touch.

Shiro steps higher until he can reach the top, placing the star with slow, intentional movements that bely his tipsy state. As he steps back, one of Keith’s hands moves to his lower back, brushing against bare skin where his sweater has ridden up again. All of Shiro’s attention is narrowed to that one point of contact, and he misses the bottom step of the ladder, his foot slides onto the floor unevenly and his weight is thrown back. 

Shiro tumbles right into Keith’s arms. Keith grunts softly at the impact, his breath dusting the skin of Shiro’s neck. 

“Easy there,” Keith whispers, “You okay, Shiro?”

“Yeah,” Shiro breathes, stunned by Keith’s proximity and the warm caress of his hand under the hem of Shiro’s sweater. Keith’s other hand slid into Shiro’s sweaty palm, and Shiro can’t stop himself from squeezing lightly. Keith’s thumb strokes slow against the jut of his hip bone, driving Shiro mad. “I think my ego is the only thing hurt.” 

Keith chuckles and his eyes slide upwards, past Shiro’s eyes, his forehead, to the ceiling. His mouth twines into a wry smile and Shiro’s eyes follow Keith’s to the bundle of spiky green leaves above their heads.

_Mistletoe._

“You know what that means, right?” Lance asks, wiggling his eyebrows in an exaggerated gesture, “Time to get smoochin’, boys!” The rest of the room erupts into cheering and laughter, yelling out encouragement.

The next moment is a non-verbal conversation. Shiro asks permission with a look, and Keith shrugs, stepping even closer to Shiro with a tentative smile. One of Shiro’s hands is still tangled with Keith’s, so he presses the other into Keith’s lower back, pulling him closer. Shiro knows it’s just a show for Keith’s family and friends, that maybe this doesn’t mean anything at all, but that thought doesn’t stop the heat suffusing his body from the way Keith is pressed against him. He could blame the alcohol, and he knows it might be a small piece of the puzzle, but he could be stone cold sober and still feel these flames. 

The whole world narrows to just the two of them, and the sounds of the group fade away. Keith’s eyes glow soft and hazy, fluttering closed as Shiro dips down, pressing his lips to Keith. He means for it to be a quick kiss, something sweet and chaste. But at the first taste of Keith, Shiro’s plan dissolves. 

Keith sighs into the kiss, pushing even closer still, until he and Shiro are pressed together from lips to hips. There’s too much fabric separating them, Shiro’s sweater is itchy against his chest and he wishes more than anything it was Keith’s skin instead. Shiro tilts his head, deepening the kiss, and Keith’s lips part to let him in. Shiro licks into Keith’s mouth slowly, lazily, tasting sweet and spice on his tongue. Keith’s free hand comes up to cup Shiro’s jaw, sliding back to drag his fingertips through Shiro’s undercut. 

When Shiro finally pulls away, he watches Keith’s face, delighting in the way his ink dark eyelashes fan against his cheekbones, casting dark shadows. He looks blissfully dazed, a soft smile on his kiss-swollen lips. 

“Alright, that’s enough, love birds. There are virgin eyes here,” Hunk calls out, covering Lance’s eyes with one of his hands. Lance swats him away, crowing about his eyes being decidedly _un-_ virgin, and the moment breaks. Shiro’s glad for the attention shift, and he looks back at Keith, at the little worried crease in his forehead that Shiro has been working so hard to smooth out.

“Hey,” Shiro says softly, tilting Keith’s face back to his with the gentle press of his fingers, “we okay?”

Keith smiles then, and it’s achingly sad, “We’re okay.” Shiro knows there’s probably more of a conversation to be had, but he tucks Keith under his arm, pulling him close and pressing a chaste kiss to the top of his head. Shiro wants to pretend like nothing’s changed, it was just a performance, but as the conversation returns to normal, he knows he’s lying to himself.

Allura pulls out a polaroid camera and hands it to Tex, crowding everyone in front of the tree for a photo. Hunk is a comforting warmth on one side of Shiro and Keith is wedged into the other. 

“Alright now, everyone,” Tex drawls, holding up the camera and closing one eye to focus. He’s the picture of a middle aged man trying to navigate newfangled technology, but the set of his mouth is just like Keith’s when he’s focusing. “Say ‘I’ve been naughty!’”

Shiro blushes hot, fighting the urge to tug his sweater down yet again, but they all repeat the phrase between bouts of laughter. Shiro’s smile is stretched wide and he feels weightless, anchored to the earth solely by Keith’s arm around his waist. 

Allura accepts the camera back from Tex and as the group spreads back out, settling into couches and chairs to relax for the evening. Allura shakes the photo before taking a good look at it, smiling fondly. She holds the photo out for Shiro to take with a careful touch. 

Loose with the alcohol, Shiro can’t stop a gasp from punching out of him. Not that there’s anything particularly shocking about the photo--Romelle and Allura are elegantly beautiful, Lance is laughing, and Hunk’s smile is comforting and warm. Keith is, as he has been every moment that Shiro’s known him so far, breathtakingly beautiful. The sharpness of his smile is smoothed out, it’s something sweeter. And his deep indigo eyes are turned, not towards the camera, but up at Shiro.

But that’s not the only thing that stole his breath.

Shiro looks at _himself,_ his broad smile and blushing cheeks and he can feel the joy radiating from the photo. It’s foreign, almost, like he’s looking at a picture of someone else. But no, his prosthetic gleams in the twinkling string lights and he can barely make out the edges of the scar that transverses his nose. It’s him.

“Can I--” Shiro swallows around the emotions crawling up his throat, “can I have a copy of this?” 

Allura beams, wrapping graceful fingers around Shiro’s thick ones, “No, but you can keep this one.” Shiro doesn’t bother trying to answer, he just slips the picture into his pocket, nodding. He stays quiet as Keith and Allura fall into steady conversation, tracking down his eggnog and sipping slowly as he listens.

After an embarrassingly short period of time, Shiro is pleasantly tipsy. The world has a pleasant blur at the edges, and everything feels slow. Keith notices quickly, scanning Shiro with his dark, intense eyes. When Shiro clumsily boops Keith’s nose, sending himself into a fit of giggles, Keith laughs too. 

“I think it’s time to put this guy to bed,” Keith announces to the group, pulling Shiro to his feet with a firm hand. He’s _strong,_ Shiro notices, not for the first time. More giggling erupts and Keith’s cheeks are stained dark, and Shiro realizes he must have said as much out loud. It comes out sloppy, not the flirty delivery Shiro would have hoped for, but Keith’s response is still delightful, shaking his head at Shiro with fondness.

Keith sets Shiro’s cup on the side table, wrapping an arm around his waist. He fits just right, shoulder tucking perfectly into the space under Shiro’s arm. He lets Keith take some of his weight, and the shorter man doesn’t budge an inch. Shiro wonders if Keith could pick him up entirely, carry him back to his room, but he doesn’t let himself wonder for long. It’s a dangerous, enticing train of thought. 

He’s surprised when Keith leads him, not to his own room, but to Keith’s. 

“Alright mister,” Keith says once they’re in the room, tugging at the hem of Shiro’s sweater, “time to get you in some pajamas.” 

“Time to get you in pajamas,” Shiro answers, but he puts his arms up anyway, letting Keith pull the sweater over his head. The motion ruffles Shiro’s hair and it flops messily over his forehead. 

“Yeah, okay,” Keith says, putting distance between them. Shiro notices the way Keith’s eyes fix on _anything_ but Shiro’s shirtless torso.

Shiro closes the distance, boldness flowing through his veins, twining an arm around Keith’s waist to pull them back together.

“Keith,” he whispers against soft lips. Keith is trembling in his arms, fingers digging into Shiro’s biceps. 

Their second kiss is nothing like the first. It’s heated and lazy. Shiro buries the fingers of his left hand in Keith’s hair, desperate for the feeling of silky strands wrapped around his skin. Keith goes lax in his arms while Shiro twirls his tongue around Keith’s, tasting and taking.

But then Keith stiffens, his clutching grip transforming into a solid push, and he breaks away from Shiro, panting. He moves away, yanking his own sweater off and replacing it with a soft red t-shirt. Keith blushes furiously when he slides his jeans down and pulls pajama pants on, but Shiro has no such shame. He tries to fold his jeans neatly after he takes them off, setting them on Keith’s bedside table and giving them a soft pat.

Keith slips under the blankets first, giving Shiro lots of space on his side of the bed. But Shiro closes the distance, nuzzling into Keith’s heat. Keith lets him, running gentle hands over Shiro’s hair, his arm. Shiro can’t help but feel like there’s something he meant to say, something important, but the soothing touches lull him into sleep. 


	3. Chapter 3

Even without an alarm, Shiro’s up early again. He and Keith are tangled together, a mess of limbs and so much hair everywhere, and he couldn't be happier. The sunlight filters through the sheer curtains, and Keith looks beautiful in the diffused light. There’s something relaxed about his face when he’s asleep, soft and content. Shiro runs his eyes, then careful fingertips over the curves and details of Keith’s face, committing them to memory. 

Keith stirs under his touch, meeting Shiro’s eyes with a soft look. 

“Morning,” Shiro whispers, awed at the gorgeous blush that colors the apples of Keith’s cheeks. 

“Good morning,” Keith answers.

They get ready in a comfortable quiet, and Shiro pulls on last night’s clothes. He accepts the mouthwash Keith offers with a grateful smile, doing his best to wash away the bitter taste of old alcohol. He’ll need a proper shower, and his teeth a harsh scrubbing, before they go anywhere, but for now this is enough. 

“So what’s on the agenda today?” Shiro asks, when he feels human enough for conversation.

“Just one thing,” Keith answers, and his smile is wicked, “caroling.”

“C-caroling?” Shiro’s mouth goes dry at just the _thought_ of singing in public. He’s not even sure he knows any Christmas carols, but Keith seems serious. Shiro watches him nod with a heavy and sinking stomach. 

And serious he was, Shiro realizes, an hour later and bundled into snug winter gear. Keith and his parents had all scoffed when Shiro had tried to insist that the suit jacket he’d arrived in was sufficient protection against the cold, and they had outfitted him in a puffy jacket and snow boots. Shiro feels silly in the jacket, it’s thick enough that he can’t see his own feet, and the puffy layers keep him from letting his arms rest at his side comfortably. 

He shuffles along in the snow at Keith’s side, not quite trusting his own feet below him. Keith, ever the gentleman, offers his arm for Shiro to hold. Shiro clutches it gratefully, not amused at Keith’s soft laughter at Shiro’s expense. 

They make it to the main part of town without much incident; Shiro only slips twice and Keith manages to catch him both times. Along the way their group grows, and Keith greets every new addition by name. He slips Shiro information about them under his breath, not just their names but little facts and tidbits about their lives. Shiro learns that the town librarian has 3 dogs, and the owner of one of the small shops on main street has won awards for his prized roses. His words cast an intimate gleam over the show dusted streets.

“It seems like you know everything about everyone,” Shiro remarks.

Keith shrugs, “Small towns.”

“And you like that?” Shiro’s been living in the city so long, he can’t imagine not being cramped and surrounded by strangers. But it seems… nice.

Another shrug. Shiro waits.

“I could do with about a dozen less busybodies sticking their noses in my life and trying to set me up with their children,” Keith laughs softly, “But it’s also nice, most of the time. Knowing everyone, having community traditions.”

“So it’s not just Christmas,” Shiro wonders.

“Oh no,” Keith’s smile is playful, “We got all out for every holiday. Giant Easter Egg hunts, fireworks shows in the summer, pumpkin patches and corn mazes in the fall.”

“And you like that.”

“Definitely. Who do you think dresses up as the Easter Bunny every year?” Keith winks at Shiro, who feels his face burn despite the biting cold. The image flashes through his mind, Keith with bunny ears and white whiskers, and it inspires feelings that are entirely unsuited for a childrens’ egg hunt. *

Their first stop is in the town square, where it seems like many of its inhabitants are milling about. According to the details Hunk had explained over a quick breakfast, they will start in the center of town before winding through a few nearby neighborhoods, stopping at every house that answers their door. Shiro’s throat feels hoarse and dry just _thinking_ about all that singing. 

Allura hands him a packet of papers with sheet music and lyrics on them, and Shiro flips through, heart sinking as he recognizes one, maybe two songs. He endeavors to slip into the back row, between Allura and Hunk, and fake-sing his way through the day. 

Keith, on the other hand? The man has _pipes._ His voice is low and rough, the timbre of it resonates into Shiro’s chest and lingers there. It’s a crooner’s voice, seductive and warm, something you’d expect to hear in a jazz club, not a group of carolers in a small, snowy town. 

Allura is the one to loop arms with Shiro as they walk out towards the residential neighborhoods, while Keith peels away from the group. He’s deep in conversation with a thin, elegant woman. There’s a deep crease in Keith’s forehead, one Shiro’s come to recognize as nothing good, while he listens. The woman’s dark hair, pulled into a high sleek, ponytail, swishes as they walk. When Keith returns to Shiro’s side, his mouth is twisted and tight, but he manages a small smile up at Shiro anyway. Shiro just squeezes Keith’s hand with one of his own, hard enough that Keith can feel it through both of their thick gloves. Maybe he’ll ask later.

One of the late additions to the group, a handsome younger man with a mess of straight brown hair, sidles up to Keith as they move from one neighborhood to the next. 

“Hey, Keith,” the man says, either ignoring Shiro or not noticing him altogether.

“James,” Keith’s reply is curt. It’s a tone Shiro’s not sure he’s heard since he arrived, and it prickles the skin of his neck.

“You’re looking fine,” James observes, his eyes raking Keith’s body with the confidence of someone who feels he’s entitled to the view, “Motel business still treating you well?”

A muscle in Keith’s jaw twitches.

“It’s a bed and breakfast,” he answers, his voice is surprisingly even, “And yes, it--”

“Hey, babe,” Shiro interrupts. His smiles brightly at James, as if he’s unaware of the growing fight he just derailed, “You dropped this.” 

Shiro reaches out to drape a thick knitted scarf, the one he had just yanked off his own neck, over Keith. He uses the ends to pull Keith towards him, gently enough that Keith can get away, but he doesn’t. He just slides his own arms around Shiro’s waist, murmuring into Shiro’s mouth, “Thanks, handsome.” 

Their second kiss is nothing like the first. It’s sharp and possessive, fueled by the spike of jealousy and protectiveness that flares hot in Shiro. He twists the ends of the scarf in his fingers, tugging at Keith’s bottom lip with his teeth. It ends entirely too fast, leaving them both breathing ragged, completely oblivious to the way James’ jaw falls open. That is, until Keith turns back to the man with a catlike smile, and says, “Oh, sorry. James, this is my _boyfriend,_ Shiro.” 

Shiro wraps his left around Keith’s body, running a soothing hand over his flank, and holds out his right for James to shake. 

“Nice to meet you,” Shiro says. He takes dark pleasure from the way James’ face drains of color when his hand meets Shiro’s prosthetic, squeezing pathetically against steel wrapped in cotton. James mutters something unintelligible before backing away and deserting the roving band of carolers, but Shiro finds he doesn’t really care. Smug satisfaction seeps into his skin, growling low in his chest. 

Keith rolls his eyes at Shiro’s expression, slipping from Shiro’s hold to pull him along by hand, muttering, “Come on.” 

Shiro gets distracted at the next few houses, too busy listening to Keith, watching the way his mouth moves as he sings, that he forgets to pretend to sing along. He can feel his own mouth hanging slack, captivated.

“Guys, Shiro isn’t even singing,” Lance complains as they move towards the final house. Shiro scowls at him, feeling utterly betrayed.

“I was too!” he protests.

“Shiro, I’m sorry,” Allura says kindly, shaking her head, “but you haven’t sung a note.”  
“I guess there’s only one solution,” Keith says, looping his arm through Shiro’s and clamping down firmly, “You’re sticking with me. Front row. And we aren’t leaving until you sing.” 

All the blood leaves Shiro’s face in an almost audible _whoosh_ and he’s glad of Keith’s tight hold, keeping his wobbly knees from giving him away. He never sings in front of people, not since the guy he’d dated junior year of college had teased him about his singing voice after a karaoke date. He knew he wasn’t good, but the comments had hurt more than he would ever admit. Since then, he’s been careful about where and when he sings.

But now he’s here, surrounded by kind smiles, and Keith is looking at him like _that._ How could Shiro possibly say no? He swallows hard and lets himself be frogmarched to the last door. As Lance steps forward to knock smartly on the dark stained wood, Shiro feels something cold and wet land on the tip of his nose. He tilts his head up to the sky and realizes--it’s snowing again. The snow falls in big flakes, a sign of warming weather. 

Keith’s eyes are on Shiro’s face when he tears his gaze from the drifting flakes. His smile is beatific in the soft white light, and Shiro’s never wanted to kiss someone more. But Keith turns away before he can act on his urges, flipping the pages of the sheet music until he finds the page he’s looking for. 

“What do we think, guys?” Keith’s gaze flits between the faces before him, “Let it snow?”

The response is a chorus of assent, and Keith holds his pages out to Shiro, letting them hover equally in front of both of them. The door swings open to reveal a family with two chubby toddlers, eyes curious and mouths smiling. 

“Oh the weather outside is frightful…”

Shiro sings quietly at first, doing his best to ignore Keith’s meaningful looks and the pokes to his back that must be coming from Lance’s bony fingers. He gradually gets louder, until every face he turns his eyes towards is smiling and nodding their encouragement. By the last verse Shiro is warbling loud and off-key, music bubbling out of him like cheap champagne. The song ends and they bid adieu to the family, and Shiro finds himself in a pile of warmly-dressed limbs and gloved hands.

The pressure eases and the only person left pressed close to Shiro is Keith. There’s laughter in his eyes and on his lips when he looks up at Shiro. There’s snowflake dusting his dark hair, glittering in the midday sun. He’s _radiant._

“You really got into that one,” Keith remarks, “It was cute.”

“Oh, so you think I’m cute?” Shiro asks, leaning into Keith’s face as he flirts. He’s on a trajectory for collision with impossibly soft lips, but Keith steps back, breaking Shiro’s gaze. Shiro retreats abruptly, clearing his throat. His cheeks are on fire with an embarrassed blush, but Keith just flashes a soft smile, something unreadable in his dark eyes. Keith walks back towards the bed and breakfast with measured steps, leaving Shiro standing alone in the snow.

Biting his lip, and biting back a dozen questions, Shiro follows.

-

Whatever distance came from their almost-kiss, it lingers throughout the day. Keith seems occupied all afternoon, helping Hunk with dinner and spending time with everyone but Shiro. Shiro’s perceptive enough to recognize a request for space, and he gives it. It isn’t until the evening has wound down, and Shiro’s cup that once held hot chocolate is rinsed and in the sink, that he tries to follow Keith to his room. 

But Keith stops short at the room Shiro originally occupied. For the past two days it’s been nothing but a convenient place to store his belongings, and the clothing he has borrowed along the way. Shiro looks at Keith with a clear question in his eyes but Keith is looking _anywhere_ but at Shiro. 

“Are we sleeping here tonight?” Shiro tries for a playful tone but he knows he misses the mark.

“You are,” Keith answers. 

Shiro has no response to that. He can see the muscles of Keith’s jaw working, and tries to be patient. 

“I got some good news today,” Keith’s voice implies the news isn’t very good at all, but he continues, “The roads are clear. They were able to get your car out of that ditch. It’s waiting for you, at Regris’ auto shop. It’s at the edge of town.”

“Oh. That’s… good. I guess.”

“I can take you in the morning, before everyone gets up.”

“Wait, Keith, I don’t understand. I--” Shiro hesitates. I don’t want to leave yet, the words catch in his throat.

I don’t want to leave at all. 

He’d thought, maybe, that Keith had felt the same. That he’d felt not just the spark between them, but the genuine enjoyment that lurked below it. Shiro had thought that maybe they could… well, he supposed, it doesn’t matter now. 

“Okay,” Shiro whispers. He can’t bear to look at Keith, to see his own crestfallen expression reflected in Keith’s eyes, so he studies the plush carpet under his feet.  
“See you in the morning, Shiro,” Keith’s voice is impossibly soft, and it sounds like a goodbye.

-

Shiro doesn’t get any sleep that night, not that he tries for very long. After an hour of tossing and turning, he gives up on the venture entirely. He folds his borrowed clothes neatly, pulling his own clothes, washed and dried and smelling like Keith’s laundry detergent, on with uneasy hands. 

He doesn’t have anything to pack, not really. Just a polaroid photo, a neglected cell phone, and a pair of flimsy sweatpants. So Shiro sits, and he waits. He rehearses a dozen speeches in his head, each more ridiculous than the next, but it beats waiting to return to his life. Shiro’s only been in this small, snowy town for a few days but something about it feels _right._

And Shiro knows that’s mostly because of Keith.

A soft rap at his door has Shiro bounding to his feet. He takes a deep breath as the doorknob twists.

“Keith--”

But it’s not Keith. Hunk, dressed for the snow, stands in Shiro’s doorway with an apologetic smile. 

“Sorry to disappoint,” Hunk’s voice is a balm, but it’s not enough.

“I was just hoping… I wanted to talk to him,” Shiro says, giving Hunk a wry smile, “You’re not a disappointment though.” 

Hunk’s broad hand is a comforting warmth on his shoulder. Keith’s truck is already running, windows cleared and the heat running on full blast. Shiro tucks his small travel bag between his feet when he climbs into the passenger seat.

The rumble of the engine is the only sound for a few minutes. Then--

“Hunk, I have to be honest,” the words tumble out of Shiro’s mouth, high velocity and unstoppable, “I know this was just pretend but I thought maybe it could be… real, I guess. I thought Keith wanted that too.”

Hunk chews at the inside of his cheek.

“I think he did, too,” Hunk answers. He speaks haltingly, taking care in choosing his words. “Keith is… you have to know, he’s a good man. He puts up a good front, but he’s also really romantic. To a fault, you might think.” 

“I could see that, but I don’t think it’s a flaw.”

Hunk nods, “I don’t think it is either. But I’m not sure Keith agrees.”

“He mentioned something. He didn’t tell me much, but he mentioned something that happened in college,” Shiro prompts, hoping Hunk might fill him in. Keith’s privacy is important, but Shiro just wants to _understand._

“He told you that? Hmm,” Hunk considers Shiro with a sideways glance, “I’m surprised. And yes, something happened in college. Or really, someone.”

“Lance and I both, we tried to tell Keith this guy was trouble. He was attractive and charming and he said all the right things. And Keith, well, he fell hard. Fast.”

“Love at first sight. Like his parents,” Shiro murmurs. Hunk’s startled laughter is loud in the small space of the cabin.

“Man, he told you a lot. He really does like you.”

“I thought he did. But yesterday it was like everything changed. He got really distant, and he didn’t even really _talk_ to me, just told me my car was ready and he’d see me in the morning. Which wasn’t even true. He… didn’t even say goodbye.” 

It hurts, Shiro realizes, more than he thought it would.

“Ah yes. The Keith Kogane romantic defense mechanism. I’ve seen it many a time, ever since that guy broke his heart. He really thought ‘the one,’ you know? But the guy was a sleezeball,” the anger is tangible in Hunk’s voice.

“Poor Keith,” Shiro says. Thinking back over the weekend, he can see it. Keith’s guarded eyes, the way he started to hold Shiro at arm’s length. 

Hunk guides the truck into the auto body shop’s parking lot, pulling up next to Shiro’s abandoned rental car. He barely recognizes it, like the day that young, excited salesman had handed him the keys was years ago, not days. 

“Hunk,” Shiro says, turning to face the man, “I just wanted to say, I’m really glad we met. You’re a good man, and I’m--I’m glad Keith has you.” 

Hunk clasps Shiro’s forearm with a warm grip, pulling him in for a tight, brief hug. It’s a little awkward, and completely the wrong angle, but it comforts Shiro anyway. He digs into his bag, pulling out his wallet and fishing a business card out of it. He scribbles his personal cell on the back and offers it to Hunk, who takes it without hesitation. Hunk pulls out his phone and types quickly, and Shiro can feel his own cell buzz in his pocket. 

“Call anytime,” Shiro says sincerely.

The cold bites into Shiro’s skin when he opens the truck door and steps outside. He’s about to climb into the rental car when Hunk’s voice interrupts him.

“Shiro,” Hunk calls, “one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Keith, he--he just needs to know he’s loved, you know?” When Shiro just looks at him dumbly, Hunk just chuffs, and says, “You’ll figure it out.” 

Shiro tries not to watch Keith’s truck retreat into the distance, trailing a cloud of exhaust and heat in the faint morning light. He turns the car on and rubs stinging fingers together to warm them up. Shiro plugs his home address into the car’s fancy GPS system, and starts to drive away.

The sun hasn’t quite risen yet, and the world is peaceful and quiet in the rich blue of pre-dawn. Eyes and hands alert to the road, Shiro’s mind lingers on the bed and breakfast. Or more specifically, the man he left behind there. 

A large sign looms at the side of the road, emblazoned with the words “Thank you for visiting Marmora!” 

_Thanks for visiting._

_Shiro doesn’t want to just_ visit.

Shiro hits the brakes a little too hard, sliding in the snow, but he pulls onto the shoulder and throws the car into park. The polaroid of him and Keith, smiling and soft, burns in Shiro’s pocket until he pulls it out. He only studies it for a moment before he reaches for his phone, dialing quickly. Anxious fingers rap against the steering wheel until the call picks up.

“Hunk? I need your help.”

-

Golden light filters in Keith’s windows, but he keeps his eyes shut tight against it. He’s not sure he’s ready to face today. He twists in his sheets, pulling the blankets over his head as if that will stop time.

It doesn’t, though. 

His door opens with a soft noise. Keith can hear Hunk’s sturdy footfalls and he sighs. The bed dips with Hunk’s weight when he sits at the edge, and waits. Keith stays silent, and so does Hunk.

But Keith’s stubbornness is legendary. 

Sighing, Hunk pulls the blankets back from Keith’s head. The light is even brighter now, stinging his tear-swollen eyes, and Keith frowns deeply. He tugs weakly at the blanket, but Hunk holds fast.

“You know none of us are going to let you stay here all day,” Hunk says gently.

“All day? It’s sunrise,” Keith can feel his lower lip push out in a ridiculous pout.

“Keith,” Hunk says, “you can do this.”

Keith abandons his attempt to tear the blanket from Hunk’s grasp and flops flat onto his back, staring at the ceiling. There’s pressure behind his eyes like he might cry again, but no tears come. 

“Hunk, can--did you tell them that--” 

_That Shiro left._

_That I sent him away, because I was afraid, and now my heart feels cracked in two._

But none of the words come. They catch in Keith’s throat and he swallows them back down.

“Don’t worry about it, I took care of anything,” Hunk assures him, “All you have to do is come sit with us.”

Keith groans, long and dramatic, but Hunk doesn’t budge. He’s kind, but immovable.

“Come on,” Hunk urges, “time to get some clothes on and get down there.” 

“I’m wearing clothes,” Keith frowns. His ‘clothes’ are a faded and stained t-shirt and flannel pajama pants, but really, it doesn’t seem like it matters. He’s not going anywhere or seeing any real customers. 

Hunk shrugs as if to say ‘do what you want’ and leaves Keith alone to compose himself. Keith rubs at his eyes, wincing at the itch and puffiness of them. He cringes harder at the sight of his face in the mirror when he makes it into the bathroom. 

Clean teeth and a copious amount of cool water splashed onto swollen skin makes Keith feel almost human. His feet drag with every step down the hallway where his family and friends are waiting to celebrate Christmas with him. He knows he’ll be unfairly grumpy despite all of their holiday cheer, and he wonders why they even bother dragging him into the thick of things just to let him pout. 

There’s no sound coming from the living room, which is… suspicious. Keith hasn’t had a moment of quiet since he family and friends all arrived a week ago. He rounds the corner, expecting to find eyes full of pity, but instead he finds…

_Shiro._

He’s dressed in that stupid suit again, down to his shoes, and Keith’s heart clutches at the sight. Shiro is clutching a sloppily wrapped gift to his chest, dripping with curling ribbon and smearing glitter onto his jacket. 

But his smile? It’s sunlight.

“What…?” 

“Merry Christmas, Keith,” Shiro says, and for once he sounds a little unsteady. He holds out the gift with hands that shake ever so slightly. When Keith stays where he is, dumbstruck and untrusting of his own voice, Shiro takes a step towards him. Then another.

Shiro sets the present in Keith’s hands, but Keith just shakes his head.

“What are you doing here?” Keith tries to whisper, but every person in the room has tuned their eyes and ears into their conversation.

“It’s okay, Keith,” his mom says. She meets Keith’s anxious gaze with a loving one of her own, though something about her expression says they _will_ talk about this later. “Shiro told us everything.” 

_Oh._

“Mom, I’m sorry, I--”

“I said it was okay. Just listen to the man, okay?” Krolia nods at Shiro, winking at him. Shiro blushes a pale pink, and it’s annoyingly cute. He clears his throat, stepping even closer. Warm hands, one flesh and one metal, curl around Keith’s wrists.

“Keith,” Shiro says, and even the way his mouth forms Keith’s name is an art form. 

“Do you remember the other day in the library, when you told me about your parents? About how they’d found love at first sight? I have to be honest with you, I never thought it existed. But then I drove my rental car into a snowbank and got rescued by the snarkiest, most attractive man I’ve ever met.”

Keith can barely think, can barely hold on to the paper-wrapped gift in his hands, can barely _breathe._ Shiro’s words feel like a lifeline, tugging him along and keeping him afloat. 

“I didn’t believe in love at first sight. And really, I’m still not sure if I do. But what I do know is, the way I feel about you? I’ve never felt anything like it in my whole life,” Keith can see Shiro’s adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard. “And I think, I _hope,_ that maybe you feel that too.”

Keith just nods helplessly as Shiro’s hands slide up his arms to rest on his biceps. His skin prickles at the sensation. 

“It’s crazy, right?” Shiro laughs self-consciously, “But I want to try. Not being your fake boyfriend for the holidays. Being your real boyfriend, forever. Or, I guess, until I was your real fiance. And then your real--”

“Shiro.” 

“Okay, yeah, not the point.” 

He’s so flustered, Keith finds his lips tilting into a fond smile as he shakes his head slowly. 

“Do you want to open your present?” Shiro lets Keith go, urging him with eager eyes. Keith pulls at the ribbon methodically until he can slip it off the edges, sliding his fingers under messy layers of tape. Glittery paper adorned with blue and white snowflakes falls away to reveal a… book? It’s huge, the wrong shape for a book, but that’s the only thing Keith can think of. It's a scrapbook. He opens the cover and finds a mostly blank page, just one photo taped in the middle, and neat lettering below.

It’s the polaroid. Keith hasn’t actually seen it, it had disappeared from Allura's hands into Shiro's before he'd taken a peek; the photo sits in stark relief against the white paper. His eyes run over the image of Shiro, smiling and glowing, before sliding to his own face. His face that was turned to look at Shiro, every ounce of affection he’s been fighting through the week is clear as day.

And below, in simple black ink, are the words “Our first Christmas.” 

_First._

“It’s empty.”

“I know,” Shiro says, nervousness twined through his words, “But I thought we could fill the rest of the pages together, you know, take more pictures and--”

The rest of whatever Shiro was going to say is lost to Keith’s mouth, pressed hard to Shiro’s. He doesn’t even think, just flings himself into Shiro’s arms, knowing he’ll be caught, and held. Shiro’s only stunned for a moment, then his fingers are in Keith’s hair and he's kissing him back, hard. Kissing Shiro before was incredible, but this is a _revelation._ All traces of hesitation are gone, Shiro’s mouth is hot and bold and Keith melts under its attention.

It’s only when he pulls back that Keith realizes he’s crying again. Shiro notices too, wiping the wetness away with soft strokes of his thumbs. Shiro’s laughing and his own eyes are glassy and Keith laughs too. He feels like light. He looks back down at the scrapbook, the pages are crumpled in one corner where they were trapped between their bodies. 

“Maybe you should keep your day job,” Keith teases, but the reverent fingers he traces over the photo give him away. 

“Actually I was thinking,” Shiro says, “that maybe I’d find a new one. Do you know of any law firms hiring in Marmora?”

A surprised laugh punches out of Keith, and he shakes his head. He lets the scrapbook topple onto a nearby table and takes the lapels of Shiro’s jacket into his hands, pulling him close again. For all his weight and strength, Shiro lets himself be pulled. 

“Definitely not,” he says against Shiro’s lips, “But maybe you could open one.”


End file.
